


A Source of Love

by CoffeeQuill



Series: Love Like You [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Clan of two, Drinking, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghost(s), Found Family, Healing, Lightsabers, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Culture, Memories, Original Character(s), Past Violence, Religious Discussion, Sparring, The Force, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25423816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: “I’m trying to make things better.” Din looks down at him, then shifts, looking towards his helmet instead. “For the Mandalorians. For our tribe. I want to do everything right.” He pauses. “But you’re my priority. You always will be.”The kid sniffs and gives him a small smile before he snuggles closer.-----With the Darksaber in their grasp, the future of the Mandalorians is set. The clan of two figures out how to move forward in their new world. Series finale.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla
Series: Love Like You [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581040
Comments: 188
Kudos: 481





	1. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In their new home, Din and Kuiil navigate their daily plans. Luke visits the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A clarification:  
> This fic, which has been completely written before posting, is tagged with 'major character death'. A scary tag for sure, but this tag _only_ applies to the very last chapter of this fic, which is an epilogue that will wrap up how their story ends. It is only mentioned, there is no death scene.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

When the call of the Mand’alor is put out, it is no jubilant cry across the galaxy. It isn’t a broadcast to every holopad or communications station, a sign in neon lights declaring the turn of the Mandalorians’ fortune. There is nothing loud or triumphant, nothing even quite noticeable.

Instead, it begins as whispers.

_ The Mand’alor calls. _

_ Mandalore rises. _

_ The Darksaber is found. _

The whispers are planted in cantinas, hostels, starports, murmured to those who wear the armor or once may have. It takes time to spread those whispers, longer for anything to come of them. Mandalorians are a guarded people, moreso after their destruction. Rumors of a risen leader sound too good to be true. But one by one, they find their way home.

One Mandalorian arrives. Then she leaves to return with her tribesmen, and their numbers grow.  _ It’s real.  _ That tribe reaches out to the others they know of.  _ The Mand’alor truly calls. _

A man stands on a farm, surrounded by animals and carefully cultivated land, his family watching from the window. He eyes the Mandalorian in front of him with distrust. “I haven’t worn the armor in years,” he says. “Not since the Purge.”

“The  _ Mand’alor  _ extends  _ cin vhetin  _ to those who exchanged their heritage for survival,” the Mandalorian says. “Put the armor on and honor your Creed.”

The farmer glances towards his family. “... What’s the name? Vizla?”

“No,” the Mandalorian says. “Djarin.”

The whispers have to be amended when their numbers grow to the point of needing more space. Scouts are sent off to search for a new home until they return with reports of an abandoned base with plenty of room. “Rhetaphim-3, sir,” they say. It’s built into the side of a mountain, its entrance only accessible via landing platform.

Their numbers continue to grow. Different tribes, different colors, from all over the galaxy. Many bear their original colors from before the Purge, wearing old armor untouched over time. Some tribes appear the same, others are mismatched. Some arrive with a whole load of children, some come with a single foundling. Some Mandalorians refuse the call altogether. But over years, the numbers continue their growth. 

The tribes are always greeted and welcomed. They send warning of their arrival and then are met first by their  _ Mand’alor,  _ a man clad in shining beskar, the Darksaber at his hip to validate the claims. Sometimes his foundling is present, a small green creature with big ears perched on his shoulder with his own beskar vambraces and cuirass, both with the signet of a mudhorn, of their clan.

It’s the first sign that this is going to be an experience.

Din Djarin wakes with a start.

His heart is pounding and his skin is drenched with sweat as he jerks himself up, breath coming out fast as he balances on one elbow, body wrenched over. He takes deep breaths, the sound of blaster fire fading from his mind, the screams of Mandalorians as they’re shot from the sky, facing massive black ships--

He squeezes his eyes shut again, willing the images of bloodshed away.

_ “Buir?” _

Din starts again, then stares down at Kuiil. The boy stands beside his bed, claws hooked over the edge and on his toes to stand tall. He looks up at Din with large dark eyes, reflective of the dim lights. Din swallows and sits up, running a hand over his face and through silver-streaked hair before holding his arms out. Kuiil jumps up onto the bed and takes a step into his hold, letting out a purr when Din drags him against his chest in a tight hold.

“Bad dream?” he whispers into Din’s shoulder. His voice is a growl, rasping against him.

“Yeah. Dream. Did you...”

“Woke you up.”

Din leans back against the wall, calm in having the boy’s weight against his chest. He’s gotten so much bigger in the last five years, becoming a solid weight, grounding when he lies on Din like this. Din holds him with one arm, stroking his back with the other, and Kuiil pushes up on him. Their eyes meet before Kuiil shoves their foreheads together, and Din grunts at the impact before pushing back.

“No helmet,” he grumbles.

“Sorry.” Kuiil grins.

After a few moments, they part, and Kuiil burrows against his chest instead with his face shoved into Din’s neck. They lie there together for a time until Din has felt the sweat evaporate beneath his clothes and his heart has calmed. He still feels the unsettledness of being startled awake, and their rooms hold the quiet stillness of a world before dawn. His fingers tangle in the back of Kuiil’s tunic before he gets up, holding him tight, and starts to pace. Their minds mesh together with complete ease, so familiar and comforting to feel like they’re one and the same.

“... Luke is coming,” Kuiil murmurs into him.

Din nods. “Right.”

“I missed him.”

“Mhm.”

Kuiil doesn’t comment on his response, but Din feels the tiny flare of non-amusement from him. He does have a significantly better, closer relationship with Skywalker than any of his Mandalorian training masters, particularly in regards to fighting style. Mandalorians don’t shy from battle, from close combat, more than willing to go toe to toe with an enemy and be locking arms. Raw strength is just a requirement. The kid, on the other hand, prefers fast. Speedy. Acrobatic. He’ll leap out of the way until there’s an opening to strike in, using the Force to both move and predict.

It isn’t  _ Mandalorian. _

Not that the kid cares much. Neither does Din. As long as his son stays alive. He’s Mandalorian in the ways that count.

Kuiil is wearing his cuirass -- pure, shining beskar, much cleaner than Din’s and untouched by years. It’s the very last bit of Din’s payment, melted down and reforged into protection for the child he’d turned in. Their mudhorn signet is welded to the top right corner, still marking him without a pauldron. His vambraces are taken off for sleep, missing now.

Din paces. The kid, for all he’s grown, still likes being held. Din rubs his back, then steps back towards his bed and looks down at the table beside it. Sitting on top is a black circular object, smooth and shiny, able to fit in his palm to record holograms--

Then, there’s knocking at the door.

Both look over. “Come in,” Din says, and grabs his helmet to slip on.

The door opens and a Mandalorian steps inside. He nods his head in respect. “Sir, Skywalker is here,” he says.

Din looks at him, then down to the kid when he grins. “Yes!” Kuiil cheers before squirming.  _ “Buir,  _ we can go.”

Din hesitates, then puts him down on the ground, crouching. “Go get him, go to the training gym and start,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Kuiil frowns up at him, grabbing his hand. “But… you always join,” he says. “Don’t you want to come?”

“I just have to do something first. I won’t miss anything.”

The kid doesn’t look satisfied, but he doesn’t argue further, either. The Mandalorian guard has disappeared and Kuiil starts towards the door.

“Kuiil.”

He looks back.

“Armor,” Din says, pointing towards the kid’s bed against the other wall. “You don’t leave without it.”

“I… remembered,” Kuiil says. He gives a sheepish smile before he dashes over to the bed and grabs his vambraces off the top. He clips them on, and then he’s gone again, disappearing through the door and out into the hallway. Din watches.

_ Damn jedi tricks. _

He shakes his head, then turns and walks back to the table beside his bed and picks up the recorder. He sits down, looking at the buttons, and sets it back on the table before turning it to face him.  _ Real quick,  _ he thinks.  _ Just to have it done. _

He hits record.

Kuiil adores when Luke comes to train him. It’s a relief to have someone else like him around, someone with the same powers and capabilities that he has. Their beginning was rocky, but as far as Kuiil is concerned, Luke is simply part of their family now. Not their  _ clan.  _ That’s a filled up thing. But he has so many  _ bavodu’e  _ as it is, what’s one more?

Luke Skywalker is just another uncle who happens to use the Force instead of beskar, and no one can change the kid’s mind.

Kuiil makes his way to the landing platform, which leads right into the base’s hangar. He stops in the doorway and looks around, standing high on his feet, as a few Mandalorians pass by. They look at him, some giving nods of acknowledgment while others don’t take notice. He smiles at the ones who see him. Some are changing the guard, others are frequent flyers unused to their night cycle. Kuiil usually waits about for a pilot who may have some stories to tell from the galaxy, but now he searches for one ship.

He’s so focused that his sight glazes over the parked  _ Razor Crest  _ where it has sat for some time. He closes his eyes and reaches out, feeling for Luke’s presence, distinguished from the others. He sees the X-wing, then, and makes a dash for it. Luke has his helmet off and is climbing down when Kuiil reaches him, and he barely turns before he has an armful of the kid. Luke grins as he catches him and Kuiil throws his arms around his neck in a tight squeeze.  _ “Su’cuy!” _

_ “Su’cuy.”  _ Luke laughs, then lets him crawl up onto his shoulder. He has no convenient jetpack to help Kuiil stay in place, but there is the hood of his cloak, and Kuiil hooks a leg in it while his top half drapes over his shoulder. Then Luke is glancing at him with a slight smile as his astromech lowers from the ship.

“What?” Kuiil says.

Luke smiles more and shakes his head before he starts walking. “Sometimes, you… seem a lot like Master Yoda. Artoo, stay with the ship.”

Kuiil grins, balancing with Luke’s walk. “I am?”

“The same species helps. How are things?”

“Good!” Kuiil relaxes down against his shoulder as they exit the hangar, instead going through the halls. He watches to be sure they go the right way. “It’s… quiet. Really boring.”

“Boring, huh,” Luke says.

“No more people have come.  _ Buir  _ says there might not be any more Mandalorians.”

They turn the corner and Luke sidesteps a passing pair of warriors with a muttered “Excuse me.” They give him a glance. He looks at Kuiil again. “Where  _ is  _ your father?”

“He said he had to do something. But he’ll come.”

“All the Mandalorians, huh? You have a lot here. Many more than I realized were alive.”

_ “Buir  _ said a lot of them came  _ back.  _ They took off the armor, but decided to wear it again.” Kuiil shifts. “We didn’t do tha -- no, left. Our tribe still wears it all.  _ Buir  _ says some people follow the Way differently.”

Luke nods.

They come to the gym, one of the base’s larger rooms with mats spread around to serve as practice rings. Kuiil throws a hand out to flick on the lights, all snapping to life to brighten the empty space. Luke’s footsteps echo as they walk towards the nearest mat, where they both sit down. They face each other, a few feet between them, and both stop to take a breath.

They bow their heads. With ease, their minds connect.

While being active in his bond with his  _ buir  _ is comforting, normal, being able to connect with Luke -- with another Force user -- feels natural. It’s an interesting feeling for another mind to reach out to his of its own accord, while his father doesn’t have the capabilities to do so. It’s a more intimate connection, almost, with easier communication, even if he’ll always prefer what he has with his  _ buir. _

_ Focus, little one. _

_ Yes. _

_ Show me. _

Drawing up memories has become second nature. Some time ago, Kuiil would have practically launched his memories at Luke, but instead he takes one by one, showing them to Luke through their connection by his own choice and strength. He thinks about the tribe that joined three months ago and the celebration that had followed. He shows the games he and his friends have been playing, and how they’ve changed the rules so it works better. How he and his  _ buir  _ have meditated together and that it makes his father relax a bit more, not so pent up like he always is.

_ There. _

_ What else? _

Kuiil frowns to himself. He shifts, eyes still shut, feeling Luke’s gentle concern through the connection.  _ Nothing. _

_ Something bothers you. _

He digs his nails into his legs, taking a breath.  _ Buir had a dream,  _ he thinks.  _ I had the same. There was a battle. It looked like a war, there were so many ships, so many people were dying and… and so many Mandalorians were hurt. I don’t know if -- if it was a vision, if  _ buir  _ was there, if…” _

Their connection breaks, and Kuiil doesn’t realize that tears have already formed until he opens his eyes. Luke looks at him with soft, sad eyes in return, then holds his arms out. Kuiil sniffs and gets up, walking into his arms, hugged against Luke’s chest. Kuiil sniffs again, closing his eyes, sinking into the warmth.

“I hate dreams,” he whispers. “I-I hate… I hate them.”

“Can you tell me what else happened?”

Kuiil swallows. “It was a weird planet,” he whispers. “It was… there were so many ships. And there was… there was lightning, lightning hit everything, it messed up everything. People were dying.  _ Mandalorians  _ were dying. And something was happening on the gr… ground, it felt  _ bad,  _ and..”

He cuts himself off. He takes a shaky breath and instead snuggles against the warmth coming from Luke. Luke is quiet, just holding onto him, and they sit there in silence.

“You said I’ll live longer,” Kuiil says. He looks up at Luke. “That I’ll… live a lot longer than  _ buir _ does.”

Luke is hesitant. “You’re 62,” he says. “From what I know of your species, it’s… young. Master Yoda reached 900. It’s…”

Kuiil looks at the floor, swallowing. “I don’t want to live without  _ buir,”  _ he whispers.

Luke’s arms tighten. “I know,” he says softly. “It’s not something you have to fear. You don’t have to fear this dream.”

“The dreams come  _ true,”  _ Kuiil whispers. “The… the Force ones. The visions. They’re always so  _ clear.  _ I  _ remember  _ them. I don’t w-want to… to…”

“They aren’t  _ always  _ true.” Luke runs his nails over Kuiil’s back with gentle pressure. “You thought he woul -- that I…” He pauses, and Kuiil looks up at him. “You thought I would kill him. That didn’t happen. Dreams are… dreams. Things change. Details don’t always line up. I had… my dream of you two was different.”

“You…”

“I dreamed of a Mandalorian with a powerful child he didn’t understand,” Luke says, his voice quiet. “One he couldn’t save from the influence of the Dark Side. What it showed me wasn’t the situation. I let fear control my actions, and while it let me meet you, I did terrible things that I regret.” He sighs. “Dreams aren’t always true. It’s easy to misinterpret. Fear of them will drive you to do more harm than good.”

Kuiil looks up at him, then takes a deep breath. “But if…”

The door slides open with the sound of whirring mechanics, and his  _ buir  _ walks into the room. He’s fully armored, jetpack on his back, blaster at his hip and charges on his belt, the Darksaber hanging from its clip. He stops, looking at them, then walks over. “Skywalker.”

“Djarin,” Luke says.

_ “Buir,”  _ Kuiil whimpers. He climbs out of Luke’s arms, then leaps up into his father’s. He’s caught and he burrows his face into  _ buir’s  _ shoulder, curling into him. He pushes into his mind, melding them together, and  _ buir’s  _ arms tighten around him as their beskar clinks.

“What is it?” he asks, voice soft.

Kuiil doesn’t answer, holding onto him, and Din frowns. He bends to one knee, easing off the weight, and looks at Luke. Kuiil is pulsating with emotional distress, pushing it onto Din, and he hesitates before he’s putting up a shield. Luke gets up to a knee as well, frowning.

“A bad dream,” Luke says. “That’s all.”

“That’s  _ all?”  _ Din says.

“Not every dream is a vision. Not every vision comes true. It may be something to… it might be nothing to worry about.”

Din glances at him, then turns his gaze down onto Kuiil. Luke’s presence is… tolerable for him. The memory of fear, anger, rage at losing Kuiil is burned into his mind, never lessening, still able to tense his muscles. But Luke is… the kid adores him. He’s helped the Mandalorians since in ways that no one else could have. No other could have lended as much support during the attack against Gideon. Din would be dead without the help he’d provided.

The Mandalorians may not revel in a jedi visiting their base, in his direct interaction with their  _ Mand’alor  _ and his foundling. But the Nevarro tribe, the  _ Mand’alor’s  _ tribe, are vocal to defend his presence. That he was instrumental in reclaiming the Darksaber. That he is no enemy. 

“Din,” Luke says. Din looks at him. Kuiil is quiet in his arms, his breathing soft. “Still here?”

“Yeah,” Din mutters. He runs his hands over Kuiil’s shoulder and hears the kid sniffle, face pushed into his neck, and takes a deep breath. “I’m good.” They lapse back into silence, but Din looks at Luke again. “I need you for something.”

Luke looks up at him, slightly frowning, but he nods. “Sure.”

The door behind them opens, and both turn to look. A few Mandalorians file into the room, some helmeted and some not, teenage boys and girls shuffling into the room with yawns. Some glance towards the three but only find space to start stretching. Two more come through the door, then a young man, his armor recognizable.

Jaylen Tero gives them a small wave. Din nods. Then the young man is ordering the others to stretch before their training session, and Kuiil starts to squirm to get free. Din lets him slip out before he’s getting up, and the child just leans on his leg.

“Hey.” Din looks down at him, and Kuiil looks up. “You should go see if your friends might be awake now.”

Kuiil frowns up at him, but he slowly detaches himself and starts towards the door. His feet drag a little, but he seems to pick himself up and instead slips through the door, out of the gym. Both men watch until he’s disappeared, and then Din turns back to Luke. “How is he doing?” he asks.

“Good,” Luke says. “He’s been on a good path for some time. He’s emotional, but…” He shrugs. “That’s just who he is. He’s still a child. He’s had good control for a long time now. I’m more concerned about some of my other students than him, and that’s good.”

Din nods. Then, he pauses. “Do you think he’d ever… do it again?”

Luke looks at him with furrowed brows before he shakes his head. “Kill someone like he did? I don’t… no. I don’t think he will. That was self defense, a terrible situation. And he seems nothing short of happy now.” He pauses. “... He’s capable of it. But  _ everyone _ is capable of dangerous things.”

Din bites his lip. It isn’t the reassurance he’s seeking, but what more can he really ask for? With a grumble, he starts to walk off the mat, and Luke follows.

But then the door flies open again. The person who comes through isn’t another trainee, instead a member of the Rhaatal tribe with rustic red armor, out of breath.  _ “Mand’alor!”  _ he calls, running over, and when he reaches them he’s bent over and panting.  _ “Mand’alor--” _

“What is it?” Din says.

“We received a transmission from a ship.” He thrusts out a datapad, bent over with a hand on his knee, before he forces himself to straighten. Din grabs it and looks down at the message in Mando’a. “Transport carrying multiple entities, some injuries and casualties. They’re… asking for clearance. There’s a -- a name, there, at the bottom--”

But Din has already seen it, staring at the letters of a name.

_ Ari Tero. _

And it feels as though his lungs have stopped working.

For a moment, all is silent, until his arm is grabbed and he realizes Luke is calling him. “Mando,” he says. “Who is it?”

“Ari,” he whispers. “It’s…”

Luke stares at him. “The girl. Who Gideon…”

Din nods, swallowing.

“Go. Mando. Go.”

He doesn’t react before he’s sprinting out the door, dignity be damned, heading for the hangar.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Mand'alor - sole ruler  
> Cin vhetin - blank slate. Nothing before the vows taken as Mandalorians matters, only what you do after.  
> Buir - mother/father  
> Bavodu'e - aunts/uncles  
> Su'cuy - hi!
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	2. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a new tribe arrives, Din and Paz meet with someone once thought gone. Din and Kuiil begin an important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

The guilt of years ago has never lessened, only been… pushed back. In the years, the busyness, the stress that followed, it was easier to throw himself into working with the Mandalorians to build their society than the thoughts of what they’d lost. The ones who’d died so Din could slice through Gideon. The expression on Ari’s face when her helmet was removed -- the first time Din had seen her face since she was small. That tight feeling in his chest the moment she’d been forcibly exposed.

He walks through the hallway with that same feeling, his heartbeat in his ears.

With morning, the Mandalorians step out of their rooms, beginning their days. For most, it’s consistent of at least training, followed by whatever personal duties they have. The hallway begins to fill with a mosaic of different clans, some matching in armor color while others are completely mismatched. Big, small, adults talking and children running past, laughing as they chase each other. Some wear helmets. Some don’t. 

It’s an achievement. They’re united, they’re strong, still hidden but unthreatened. They regard him with respect, with reverent murmurs of _Mand’alor_ as he walks past. The Darksaber lends him so much authority, admiration, just by sitting on his belt. Not that Din can bring himself to enjoy it most days, or even think about it right now.

_Ari._

Anxiety is running through his hands.

He’s almost to the entrance when his bicep is grabbed in a strong grip and he jumps before looking up at Paz, breathless. A blue mountain like always, his paint job faded from time. “She’s back,” Din says.

“With company,” Paz says.

“Does her family know?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Their steps match, Din walking just a bit faster, shoulders almost bumping.

“Where’s Griphin and Ali’i? Jaylen was starting with his intermediate group.”

“Haven’t seen them yet.” Paz glances at Din. “We don’t say anything to them. Not for us to do.”

Din lets out a breath. “That doesn’t… feel right,” he says. “They should know.”

“We’ll talk to Ari first, if this is really her. We go from there.” They reach the doors and Paz hits the button for them to shoot open with a mechanical _whirr_. “There’s wounded. Let’s take care of those things first before a family reunion.”

Din nods and they step through.

Wind is blowing harsh around them as a star freighter lands inside the hangar, lowering down neatly beside Luke’s X-wing. Several Mandalorian guards are already running forward, some raising blasters while others are going to the doors. Din and Paz stand back, watching in silence as the ship is surrounded, commands yelled for the occupants to exit with empty hands.

The doors open. A woman in Mandalorian armor gets out first, hands up. Her armor is a faded red, scratched to reveal the silver beskar beneath, and her helmet is hanging off her belt by a clip. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a low, messy bun, strands pulled out, and her skin is fair with blood on her lip and smeared across her cuirass.

But she isn’t Ari.

They can hear the exchange of Mando’a between the woman and the guards, and the blasters are lowered. Instead, more Mandalorians emerge from the ship, some wearing helmets and some not, looking ragged and worn. They’re adults, teenagers, some with children in their arms. But overall, there are not many of them. The guards walk into the ship, and Din watches as they come back out carrying bodies.

“Into the medbay!” an _alor’ad_ yells, and the wounded are carried or helped towards the doors.

The blonde woman walks up to and talks to a guard, who quickly turns and points towards Din and Paz. She glances at them, then nods and mouths a _thank you_ before she starts to walk over. They both shift, and she stops a few feet away, her eyes immediately dropping to the Darksaber on Din’s belt. She bends down to one knee, head bowing.

 _“Mand’alor,”_ she says.

“At ease,” Din says. The woman stands again, holding herself straight. “You are?”

“Kirana Souvare, sir,” she says. Her gaze flickers towards the Mandalorians being helped out of the hangar. “This is my tribe. Or… what’s left of it.”

“You are its _alor,”_ Paz says.

Kirana looks at him, then nods with a grimace. “An unfortunate promotion,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Din says, his voice soft. “I’m Din Djarin. This is Paz Vizla, my second in command.”

“A pleasure,” Kirana says.

“Is this your ship?” Paz asks. “How did you have our coordinates?”

Kirana shakes her head. “We were picked up,” she says, and for a moment her expression deflates with sorrow. “Our casualties and injuries came from an attack by street thugs on a moon. Our numbers are small as is, and they had the drop on us. We were rescued by a… a bounty hunter who spoke Mando’a. She flew us here.”

Din and Paz look at each other. Unspoken words pass between them, expressionless helmets saying enough as their gaze holds.

Behind Kirana, someone climbs off the ship. Helmetless, looking around, dark hair tied up and in an instant Din is moving without thinking. He steps around Kirana and starts towards the ship.

Ari is… older. Of course she is, but her _face_ is so different, much of the baby fat lost. Her hair is grown longer, plaited back into a bun, strands of hair swept into her eyes. Her skin is tanner from sunshine, and when she’s off the ship, she looks at Din with an expression he can’t read.

He stops before her, and for a moment they only look at each other. Both let out a breath, gazes locked, body language still.

 _“Mand’alor,”_ she says.

“Don’t call me that,” Din says.

She breaks into the tiniest of smiles, only just noticeable. “It’s your title.”

“I like _ba’vodu_ better.”

For a moment, they stare. Her eyes dart all over him, taking in whatever’s changed, and then behind him towards their base. Wild animals are loud in the distance, the wind rustling the trees that otherwise hide the entrance to their hangar. She looks towards the X-wing, then back to Din.

“This is… different,” she says. “But you aren’t.”

Din doesn’t respond. His voice is caught in his throat and the emotions are overwhelming until he closes the distance between them. She doesn’t stop him from dragging her into a hug, his arms crushing around her, and for a moment he can imagine that he’s younger and she’s little and he’d come home again from hunting to a stubborn child demanding stories of the outside.

Seems this time, she’ll be the one with stories.

 _“Ar’ika,”_ he breathes, eyes squeezed shut.

Her arms wrap around his waist, and her cheek buries into his shoulder. _“Ba’vodu,”_ she whispers, and Din can’t let go.

  


The Afaran tribe’s arrival is a source of gossip among the Mandalorians. Every new arrival is. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of their latest residents, some crowding in the hallways that lead to the medbay. There’s quiet murmurs as the wounded are brought in, followed by Din and Paz with Ari and Kirana between them in an escort. Ari keeps her head down, an anxiety surrounding her, and Din can’t offer comfort as they remain spaced apart. _“Go,”_ Paz snaps at a Mandalorian who gets too close, and they scurry back.

“There’s a lot,” Ari mutters.

“Yes,” Din says. “More than we thought.”

Once the medbay doors close behind them, there’s a relief at the privacy. The wounded are brought towards the beds for treatment, their healers quickly moving to strip armor and triage the injuries. Din looks towards Kirana, who leans against the wall as she watches with a conflicted expression on her face. An expression he knows far too well, that concern for those under your command.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

Kirana looks at him, then reaches up and brushes a hand against her mouth. But the blood is dry and only a light pink smear comes away from it. “I’m fine,” she says.

Paz looks at Ari. “You picked them up,” he says.

“You know her?” Kirana says.

“She’s our _vod’ad,”_ Din and Paz say at the same time. Ari crosses her arms, looking between them with exasperation.

“I was resupplying,” she says. “Trying to get rations before I took more pucks. Heard blaster shots, and I was just going to leave, but… I heard Mando’a. Realized they were _Mando’ade._ I could help.”

“She did,” Kirana said. “Out of nowhere, blasted them from behind. Saved us. Said she could get us to the _Mand’alor.”_

“I had the coordinates,” Ari mutters.

Din looks at her. “You kept them,” he says.

“I did.”

“Cara said you didn’t want them.”

“... I didn’t,” she says.

Din tilts his head to the side and Ari looks away. It’s only then that he notices her armor. She still wears her beskar -- cuirass, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses. But they’re… different. Reforged. The hexagon on her cuirass is gone, smoothed over. It’s restyled to be plain and painted over into an unnoticeable grey and nothing Mandalorian. Somehow, that… hurts something deep.

After a moment, Paz clears his throat. “We’ll get your tribe settled,” he says. “We have armorers who can see to your gear and plenty of food. Considering the size of your tribe, it might be best to conserve space by giving you rooms with another small group.”

Kirana nods. “That’s fine with us,” she says. “With everything that’s happened to us, any shelter at all is enough.” She glances at Din, “We don’t have much for beskar. But we managed to pick up a few ingots worth of it. No armorer.”

“We have several,” Din says. “They’ll forge it for you.”

“Thank you.”

Din gives her a nod. “We’ll have a gathering tonight,” he says. “We do them for new arrivals and to help you adjust.”

“Sounds perfect,” Kirana says with a small smile.

She and Paz begin talking about room organization, but Din can only look to Ari. “Your family doesn’t know you’re here,” he says, his voice soft. “We can go find them now if--”

“No,” Ari says, and she’s hesitant. “I... I don’t want to do that to them. I came to help these people. Not… come back.”

“You _can_ come back,” Din says, his voice hushed. “You belong here, you always have.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Plenty of Mandalorians here don’t wear helmets. It’s… different, but this union doesn’t work if we consider them to be _dar’manda._ Things have changed.”

“Din,” Ari snaps. “I know I’m _dar’manda._ Gideon made that happen. Everyone saw me.”

Din looks at her. “If there was ever a good reason to lose your helmet,” he says.

Ari stares at him, then crosses her arms. “Din,” she says. “I… know that you want me back. But I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.” She shakes her head. _“Cin vhetin_ doesn’t… it doesn’t count.”

“I’m saying it does,” Din says.

She takes on a sad smile. “That’s not enough, _ba’vodu,”_ she says. “I’m a bounty hunter. Not a Mandalorian.”

“You can be both. I was both.”

She shakes her head.

Din lets out a breath, his chest tight. The regret he feels is nothing short of overwhelming. Kirana walks away to her people and Paz turns back to them.

“I’d like to see my cousins, though,” Ari says with a smile.

  


Kuiil can be hard to find in the base. When they’re separate and busy, their minds are loosely connected, and Din doesn’t have the sensitivity to reach for the kid. It’s Kuiil who has to reach for him, a frustratingly one-sided relationship between them in terms of the Force bond. He lurks on the outside of Din’s consciousness, blissfully unaware of anything Din thinks if he’s not paying attention.

Instead, he’s forced to ask “Have you seen my kid?” to anyone who might know.

No one’s seen Kuiil’s particular batch of friends, but they’re eventually found deeper within the base. Not every room is occupied, rather cleaned up in preparation for residents, and Din walks into one to the sound of laughter and chatter.

All sound dies down at the door opening, and several children turn to look.

In the air, several objects float, spinning in a slow circle. Some are toys, stuffed creatures that dip and fly about. Others are glinting helmets. Others appear to be molded training blasters -- the kind that children wore to adjust to the feeling of a blaster at the hip. The objects all swirl together, and Kuiil stands in the middle of it, hands raised.

But he whips around to see Din, and the objects all fall at once.

They’re all caught inches before the ground, and Din then notices Luke, leaning against the wall but now stepping forward as he catches the objects. A helmet is missed, though, and it clatters against the ground. Din stands in the doorway and sighs, then walks inside. The objects lower down and he steps up to a helmet, grabbing it. “Tell me you didn’t steal any of these things,” he says.

The children all vehemently shake their heads with mumbles of _“No, Mand’alor,”_ then scramble around for their helmets and training pistols, pulling them on or sliding into holsters. One shyly walks up to Din and he holds the helmet out. They grab it out of his hand and slip it on. Then, they all scurry together in a group around Kuiil, practically existing as one like always. 

Din glances at Luke. “Training session?”

Luke smiles. “Something like it.”

Din rolls his eyes, but not without a hint of a smile beneath the helmet. “Kuiil,” he calls. “Come here.”

Kuiil’s head tilts, then he walks over and touches Din’s shin as he looks up at him. Then Din sidesteps, beckoning Ari to step up, and she does so. Kuiil’s eyes dart to her, and for a moment he frowns in confusion. Then his eyes widen and he stares at her with shock. “Ari?” he whispers.

Ari smiles, and Din sees the tears starting to form in her eyes. “Hey, _di’kut,”_ she whispers, crouching down to his level.

Kuiil darts forward without hesitation, and he’s in her arms, his own fitting around her neck in the tightest hug he can manage. She holds him to her chest, eyes squeezing shut as a tear escapes. Kuiil’s face buries in the junction of her neck and shoulder. Din and Paz both look at each other, then down at the two. After a few moments, Kuiil lets out a muffled wail into her shoulder, trembling. “Ari,” he cries, nearly indecipherable. It devolves into sobs. Tears stream down Ari’s face and she sits down, holding on tight.

From the group of children, a small boy breaks away, coming to stand by Paz’s side and take his hand. _“Buir,”_ he says softly, looking up at Paz. “Who’s that?”

Paz bends down to Broedy’s level, an arm sliding around the boy’s waist. “Someone you used to know,” he murmurs, and their helmets lean together.

Kuiil is a howling mess in Ari’s arms, inconsolable and crying the same tears he’d cried the same day he’d known what happened to her. Paz takes Broedy onto his hip and quietly directs the other children out through a different door to return to their parents. Luke lingers, but gives them space, a slight smile on his face. He glances at Din, and their gazes meet for a moment.

Ari and Kuiil keep holding onto each other, and Ari rubs his back. Din and Paz share another look and Din crouches beside them. Ari looks at him with red eyes, taking deep breaths.

“I want to see my family,” she whispers.

Din nods. “Then you’ll see them,” he says.

  


The Mandalorians are happy to throw together a celebration for that night. Those who cook gather in the kitchen, preparing as many traditional foods as their stores allow, while others readjust their cafeteria space to fit as many people as possible. Their celebrations are loud, drunken, and as Mandalorian as they can be. And it’s been a while since the last one.

Tribes like those from Nevarro, who keep their helmets on, eat dinner before to keep their helmets intact. With plates in front of them, Din and Kuiil sit opposite, taking an early meal with a couple hours to spare.

“Things were like this, once,” Din says.

Kuiil looks up at him, then back down to his plate. “Like what?”

Din glances at him and takes a bite of spiced meat. “When I first brought you to the covert,” he says. “The tribe wanted to celebrate us coming home.” He looks down at the food. “I was sure they were all trying to steal you from me. They loved you from the start.”

Kuiil smiles. “I love them,” he says, his voice soft. He looks up. _“Gar kar’taylir darasuum.”_

Din looks at him and begins to smile. “I love you, too,” he says, his voice soft. The kid’s presence in his mind shines with warmth, loving and encompassing, and Din takes another bite. The kid’s smile drops, beginning to fade, and Din looks up at him with furrowed brows. “Kuiil?”

“You’re going to die,” Kuiil whispers.

Din feels his mouth go dry. It’s so out of nowhere that it feels like a punch straight to his gut. He’s silent for a moment before he puts the fork down. “... Was that your dream?” he asks.

Kuiil swallows and shakes his head, tears forming in his eyes again. “No, but there… there was a war. Something was happening. And… And Luke s-said I’ll outlive yo… you, because Yoda was like me and he was _900_ but you’re hu-human and I’ll have to live _so long_ without you and I-I don’t… I don’t want--”

“Luke said…” Din stares at him.

“I don’t want to live without you!”

The kid throws himself into Din’s arms and Din holds onto him, a twisting sensation in his stomach, flooding his senses as the kid grips him. He leans his chin on top of Kuiil’s head, fingers digging into his back. “When did Luke say that?”

“He…” Kuiil sniffs. He cuddles into Din’s arms, head resting against his collarbone, ears flattened. “When we first m… met. He told me. He said…”

“He shouldn’t have.” Cold anger is building, but he puts a cap on it for the kid’s sake, focusing more on rubbing his back in soothing circles. “He shouldn’t have said any of that to you.”

“But you’re… you _are_ going to die.”

“One day,” Din says, looking down at him. “Everyone dies one day. That’s… what happens. But…” He lets out a sigh. “It’s not something to be afraid of. It’s… life. One day, we’ll all die and go to the Manda. All Mandalorians will. Even if you might take longer to get there, we’ll be there together, you and I.”

Kuiil stares up at him, then stands in Din’s lap and bumps their foreheads together. Din leans into it, both sitting there for several moments, minds tightening so intensely that Din almost can’t breathe through the emotion. Kuiil’s claws dig into his shoulders, shaky tears in his eyes, beginning to calm down but far from there.

“If it’s… my time, I can’t help it.” Din looks at him. Kuiil looks back with teary eyes. “But I’m never going to leave you. I want every second that I can have with you. In the past -- there’s already so much time I gave up. I don’t want to lose any more.”

Kuiil shoves forward against his chest, sniffling. “I love you,” he whispers. “I _love you.”_

“I love you, too,” Din murmurs, holding him tight. “This… _Mand’alor_ thing. Takes more time from you than I want it to.” He frowns to himself and strokes the back of Kuiil’s shoulder, nails dragging in gentle scratches. “You’re the most important thing to me.”

Their plates lay in their places, near empty of food now. When Kuiil finally separates from him, he picks at a bit more of the meat and sniffles as he chews. Din cleans up the plates, wiping them off, and sets them aside. The kid has walked to his bed and slumps down onto it, looking miserable still as he buries his face in his pillow.

“Hey,” Din says. “You have time to clean your armor. Keep it nice.”

Kuiil looks up at him, frowning, but he starts to get up. He walks around and to another doorway for the closet, then stops and looks back at Din. “Yours isn’t shiny anymore,” he says.

Din glances down at his cuirass. It certainly isn’t, marked up by time but still silver. It doesn’t shine anymore, not like the kid’s. He slides the plates aside. “It isn’t,” he agrees. “Go clean.”

Kuiil makes a pout, but it’s more lighthearted this time and Din watches him disappear to get out the cleaning kit. He glances down at his own armor again, a hand coming up to run over a prominent burn scratch across the bottom. He _could_ have it reforged and have the imperfections melt away. But something about that feels wrong. He certainly earned every blemish there is over the last decade.

“Kuiil,” he calls.

There’s a shuffle. Kuiil appears from the closet again, the boxed kit in his arms. “Yes?”

“Check if there’s paint still in there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Alor'ad - captain  
> Alor - leader, chief  
> Mand'alor - sole ruler  
> Ba'vodu - aunt/uncle  
> Ar'ika - little Ari  
> Vod'ad - niece/nephew (invented word)  
> Mando'ade - Mandalorians (sons/daughters of Mandalore)  
> Dar'manda - soulless, state of no longer Mandalorian  
> Di'kut - idiot, waste of space (used here lovingly)  
> Gar kar'taylir darasuum - I love you
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ari considers how her former tribe has changed without her. Din confronts Luke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

Her walk is slow through the halls, unsure of exactly where she’s going. The directions were helpful until now, too many turns made before the next ones are lost, and instead she’s just… walking. It feels incredibly surreal, like none of this may be real.

Mandalorians walk past her. She notices every one that isn’t wearing a helmet, walking alongside those who are, talking and laughing together. It’s a sharp contrast to her childhood, when every adult besides her  _ buire  _ kept hidden faces. She remembers the hours spent wearing her own helmet, determined to be ready for when it became permanent. Her mother’s exhausted efforts at getting her to take it off so she could rest without the weight.

_ “I’m going to be used to it, Buir, you’ll see.” _

She had been. The day she swore the Creed in front of their tribe, before the Armorer, beside her twin. The helmet was already part of her, then. It’d been her life. Hunting with Din, she’d become used to the stares and questions and teasing about showing her face.

Then it’d all been ripped away. Not just her helmet removed. But by Gideon. In front of her family. Destroyed, violated, becoming just another casualty in the Imp’s crusade against their people. Another  _ plus one  _ in the millions of lost souls. Even with Cara’s unrelenting insistence that she’s the same person she’s always been, the ex-rebel’s stance firm that a helmet can’t take away who she is…  _ just another casualty.  _ That’s all she is. A shell of a Mandalorian, reforged into a bounty hunter by a lesser flame than one good enough to craft beskar.

But she hears hammering. It’s multiple tools, pounding away without rhythm, a cacophony of sounds that is almost overwhelming. For a moment, she’s a little girl again, venturing into the forge to seek out the one person she knows will be honest with her. Without attempts to placate her, like the other adults would. Without deflecting onto someone else who may have a more reassuring answer for a questioning child.

The forge room is  _ hot. _

There’s multiple built here, lining the large room with walls crafted between them to allow personal working space. She stops and watches the armorers, each lost in their work, ignoring her presence or simply not noticing. Armor is pounded into shape, beskar is melting, tools are being crafted.

She spots the person she wants to talk to, and she walks to the Nevarro Armorer, who pours molten beskar into a mold.

She stops a few feet away and stands there, waiting. The Armorer doesn’t react to her at first, but that certainly isn’t new. Ari stands to wait, arms crossed, until the product is finished for now. It takes several minutes with some hammering before the Armorer turns to look at her.

For a moment, it’s silence. Then she steps away from the forge and towards Ari. Her helmet tilts down towards her cuirass, then towards her pauldrons. The reforging doesn’t go unnoticed. Ari feels her face heat, shifting her weight between her feet, suddenly unsure of herself. The decision to have the metal reforged had left her walking away with angry satisfaction. Now, she feels a sense of guilt press on her shoulders.

“You kept it.”

“It’s mine,” Ari says, voice tight. “I earned it.”

“The job isn’t very good,” the Armorer says. “It is not as strong. It will not protect you from as many hits before it gives.”

“I didn’t have much choice in smiths.”

The Armorer looks at her, then nods and turns back to the forge. “If you give it to me, I can work it properly into your preferred style.”

Ari watches her. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Tell me.”

“I have beskar.” She reaches into the pouch on her belt and draws out a beskar ingot. It’s stamped by an Imperial sigil like so much of the steel is now. “The new tribe had it but no one to forge it. They gave one to me for helping them.”

“It was noble of you,” the Armorer says. “To help them. To bring them to a place you did not want to come to.”

Ari takes a breath, looking down at the ingot, then walks up and puts it on the table of tools beside the forge. “It didn’t feel like there was another option.”

“But you are still here.”

“I…” She pauses. “I am.”

“What has changed?”

“... Changed?”

“Din said he got the coordinates to Cara Dune, but that you hadn’t wanted them. You must’ve kept them anyway. Was there a reason?”

Ari frowns. “No. No reason.” She shifts. “I…”

The Armorer looks up at her.

“... I. I wanted them? I don’t…” She crosses her arms in a hug, then lets out a frustrated breath. “It didn’t feel right to say… to say no. Completely. To really… to say  _ no.” _

The Armorer’s gaze is penetrating. It’s always been like this, something about the silent look from  _ her  _ helmet that draws out nerves and compels one to speak. To  _ admit.  _ Even her  _ buire  _ couldn’t achieve as much, but the Armorer was their leader. She understood things. She’d wondered, often, why the Armorer wasn’t the  _ Mand’alor.  _ Why she had pushed the Darksaber towards Din and not taken it for herself. But maybe it was the smartest move, in the end.

“I lost my helmet,” Ari snaps, making fists at her sides. “I lost it all. Gideon took my helmet off and… everything  _ changed.  _ You can’t come back from that. No one in our tribe has. I remember the people who left because their faces were revealed, so I can’t—I can’t…”

“A damaging practice,” the Armorer says.

Ari stops and looks at her.

“One we followed for many years.” She takes the ingot of beskar and places it on the table beside her tools. She then begins to organize the tools in the particular order she keeps them in. Ari watches. “It hurt us. It did. It lost us many Mandalorians who still now choose to not return, even when we thought it was for our protection.”

“We…”

“Our strength is in our numbers,” the Armorer says. “A change of thinking, of belief—it does not come overnight. But as more and more Mandalorians came to answer the call, it became clear that many honor their oaths in different ways. And for us to hold them to our own beliefs, this entire effort of reunion would fall apart in a rather efficient manner. You will see how many do not wear their helmets outside of training or formal events.”

Ari swallows. “So, you just… changed?”

The Armorer stops then, silent as she considers an answer. The hammering continues around them, no pause on their conversation. “No,” she says. “For something so ingrained… it isn’t possible to just  _ change.  _ But we began to accept that our Way was not the only Way.” She looks at Ari. “Some of the first tribes that came were as sure of their choices as we were. That growth was uncomfortable. Our  _ Mand’alor  _ can tell you of the fights he had to manage.”

The image of Din trying to stop two stubborn tribes from tearing each other apart… Ari smiles a little.

“Returning to our fold will be your choice alone,” the Armorer continues. “Something horrific was done to you against your will, and our tribe had a damaging response to it when you were still so young. It has haunted us. But this is about you, not our comfort in being forgiven.”

Ari swallows and steps closer. The Armorer turns and takes a beskar cuirass off the workbench, placing it into the forging tray. She watches, breath held. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers, fists at her side. “How do I… How can I come back when I still feel like this? I saw Din and Paz. I saw Kuiil. I missed them…  _ so much,  _ I miss my family, but I—I feel  _ broken.  _ I’m not the person they knew. I’m never going to be that kid again.”

The Armorer lifts the tray, then stops for a moment before placing it into the center of the flames. Quickly, the beskar begins to melt. “If you decide you want to return,” she says, “it seems you may have to introduce us to who you are now.”

Ari stares into the flames, feeling their heat.

_ “Buir…” _

“You don’t like it?”

Din crouches on the floor. Kuiil climbs up onto Din’s leg, standing there to tuck his head beneath his father’s chin, snuggled against him though he’s turned to watch. “It’s all black?” he whispers. “Where’s the—the mudhorn?”

“Not all black,” Din says. He takes his pauldron and picks at the edge before peeling away wire tape, revealing the base silver beneath. The outside edges and the trim down the middle stay silver, the inside blackened.

“The mudhorn?” he demands.

“Covered, too.” Din again picks at where the mudhorn would sit and peels away painted tape. He puts the tape aside and pulls off his gloves, setting those down. “You don’t like it?”

Kuiil makes a face. “I like the shiny,” he says. “We were  _ both  _ shiny.”

“We can paint yours.”

“That’s worse!”

Din stands, bouncing Kuiil up onto his hip. “The trim and helmet stay shiny,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kuiil pouts. But he shifts and leans into Din’s side, pressing his cheek there, and makes a grumble. Din runs a hand over his back and places him down on the floor before he begins to put on the dry pieces. Kuiil steps back to watch, his own beskar cleaned and gleaming again. The process of getting the armor on takes some time, but he soon stands and glances towards the mirror on the nearby wall.

He’ll have to get used to it, too. But the silver stands out, his Mudhorn signet far more noticeable. “Weird,” Kuiil mumbles, and Din just gives him a smile before he grabs his jetpack and settles it onto his back. He takes his helmet and slips that on, then feels Kuiil’s weight as he jumps up onto him. The boy rests on his shoulder, leaning his head into Din’s, and they glance in the mirror.

“We’ll see about getting you a helmet,” Din says.

Kuiil perks up, eyes wide. “Really?” he whispers.

“You’re training.” Din presses a hand to his back, then pulls away and starts towards the door. “You should get one.”

Kuiil grins, his excitement striking through their bond. “Yes,” he whispers, and Din smiles to himself as they walk out of their rooms. The usual guard stands outside, silent and attentive. Kuiil looks at him, then taps against Din, pushing up to whisper.

Din slows, then stops, and he looks back at the guard. “You’re relieved,” he says. “You can go to the party.”

The guard looks at him. “... My  _ alor’ad  _ said to stay here, sir,” he says.

“I outrank him. You’re not doing anything here. Go enjoy it.”

For a moment, he hesitates, but nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, and begins down another path. Din looks at Kuiil, who grins, and gives his ears a rub.

“Good kid.”

The hallway is clear, empty, most having already disappeared down to the celebration. They walk through the hallway together and Kuiil is a quiet presence at his shoulder, his cuirass pressing into Din with each breath. Their link falls just as quiet, leaving only companionship, and Din takes a breath as his thoughts turn. Their conversation of earlier drifts back to him, and he scowls to himself. 

_ “Buir?”  _ Kuiil says.

“It’s nothing.”

The kid frowns.

The Mandalorians’ idea of partying is… something they never could’ve done on Nevarro. It’s loud, excited, and can quickly turn wild without cautious supervision from at least a few of their people. Those who play instruments are happy to provide the music for dancing, some traditional pieces mixed with more recent or original compositions. Food and alcohol is set out buffet-style and Din often worries what their stores look like afterwards. The morning after can leave many with hangovers and regret.

His younger, wilder self might have been happy to partake in such things, once. When things were different, when the only thing he had to worry about was keeping his helmet on. When he didn’t have a son to care for and an entire Mandalorian society to look after.

When he and the kid walk through the doors, they’re seemingly the last to arrive.

It’s calm now, in a relative sense. Music plays, an upbeat tune that those in the center dance to, laughing together. Few are wearing their helmets, casting them aside for now in the name of fun, essentially revealing those who won’t remove them at all. Now is the most popular time for tribes to intermingle, standing together in groups as they laugh with food and drink in hand. When Din walks through, those who see him turn and nod in recognition.

Desperately, he wishes they would stop.

_ “Ba’vodu!” _

Din looks over as two helmeted children run to him, Broedy and Shaeh looking up at him. Broedy crashes against his legs and Din grabs him by the shoulders to keep him standing. The boy straightens up with a mumbled “sorry”.

Kuiil gets up completely onto Din’s shoulder, ready to jump down, when he stops himself and looks at Din instead. “Can I…?” he whispers.

“Go,” Din says. Kuiil grins and jumps down, landing with a  _ thump.  _ “But— _ behave—“ _

They disappear into the crowd, and Din grumbles. He turns his attention onto the others, looking around at whoever he might recognize. Some of the Nevarro children are sitting together, helmets in their laps, quickly joined by Kuiil, Broedy and Shaeh. To the side, he sees Paz and Kirana standing together, another armored man with them. He takes in a breath and walks over.

“... for the location,” Kirana says, voice raised slightly over the chatter. “We’d heard about Gideon and the Darksaber, about a new Mand’alor, but didn’t—“

“Speaking of,” Paz says, looking up at Din. Kirana smiles at him, nodding, while the other man—without a helmet—dips his head with reverence. Din returns the nod, shifting with discomfort. Paz gives him a look up and down, “You painted.”

“Decided to change things.”

“What’s Kuiil think?”

“Not a fan.”

Paz chuckles. He gestures towards the others with a hand and crosses his arms. “They were just talking about getting here.”

“How are your people doing?” Din asks.

“As well as could be hoped,” Kirana says. “They’re recovering now, but we won’t lose anyone else.”

“We’ll be sure you have the right funeral arrangements,” Din says. “I’m sorry.”

_ “Nu kyr'adyc... shi taab'echaaj'la,” _ Kirana says with a sad smile. “You lose enough people, and… death feels more familiar.”

They each nod in understanding, the weight of the conversation settling over them all. But the topic only draws Din’s thoughts back to an earlier one, and he glances at Paz. “Seen Skywalker?”

“No,” Paz says. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just need to talk.” He shakes his head. Luke is more likely to be at his ship than here. He turns to walk to the door when he stops instead. He watches as Ari and the Armorer walk into the room, side by side. Ari’s eyes are scanning the room, but they stop upon seeing Din and she looks… hesitant. He walks over.

“Hey,” Ari says, hesitant. “I… want to see my brother.”

He nods. “He’ll be here somewhere,” he says. He glances at the Armorer, who gives him an acknowledging nod, and he lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. I need to find Skywalker.”

“It’s fine,” Ari says, and she steps around him to begin her search. The Armorer looks at him, and he can feel her gaze through their helmets, as deep and probing as it has always felt.

“Did you talk to her?” he asks.

“She came to me. I explained some things to her. How things have changed for us.” The Armorer takes a sweeping view of the Mandalorians around them. Somewhere, there’s the sound of a loud  _ clatter,  _ and Din sighs at the apology thrown out. “... How they’ve very much changed.”

“Do you think she’ll come back?” he asks.

“She seems to have the desire in her heart to do so,” the Armorer says. “I think she may have a foot on the road to returning to us. But she’s endured much, things none of us can imagine, and we can only encourage her when we are to blame. Not force her.”

“Of course,” Din agrees. “As much as I want her to return.”

“She’ll follow her heart, as she always has.” There’s fondness in her voice. “Perhaps she’ll forgive us in her own way.”

“I hope.”

Away from the party, in the hangar, Luke is working on his ship.

They’re the only ones in the hangar, sans the single guard standing watch by the bay doors, looking bored at his post. The night sky twinkles out and above, and Luke has a panel open on the X-wing’s exterior with his hands shoved into its underbelly. His blue and white astromech is beside him, its head dome rotating to let out a series of beeps. As Din walks over, Luke doesn’t turn, just reaching for a tool. 

“Thought you were all at the party,” he says.

Din stops a few feet away, glancing at the droid before the ship. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Lights have been a bit off. Just a wiring fix.”

“We need to talk.”

Luke pauses, then glances over his shoulder before he’s working again, standing on the balls of his feet to get a better look. “Nice paint,” he mumbles. “... Talk about what?”

For a moment, Din is silent. It takes a few seconds before Luke stops again and lowers himself, looking over at Din. “Is Kuiil okay?” he asks.

“He’s…” Din lets out a huff. “No. He’s not.”

Luke pulls his hands out of the ship, his expression filling with concern. “Did something happen--”

“What did you say to him about me  _ dying?” _

Luke freezes then, staring at Din before his shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh, looking deflated. The astromech makes something like a sad coo. “He… mentioned it to you.” Din looks at him. His gaze is unwavering and Luke puts the tool down. “I didn’t…” he pauses. “I thought he already knew. I didn’t realize what I… what I was doing. Until it was too late and I had to explain. I’m sorry, it wasn’t something for me to—“

“Why the hell would you do it?”

“It was when I first met him, at my temple, and—“

“When you kidnapped him.”

Luke lets out a breath. “... Yes, then. I was concerned about what would happen to him once… after your death. I didn’t realize it was new information to him. That he didn’t know his lifespan, sure, but not even realizing that he would…”

Din makes fists at his sides. “That wasn’t for you to  _ do,”  _ he growls. “That was for  _ us  _ to talk about, not you.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. He…” Luke pauses. “While we’re having this conversation, it’s been  _ five years  _ since then. Why hasn’t it come up until now?”

Din stares at him, then shifts his weight between his feet. “It’s none of your business.”

“Did you plan on  _ ever  _ bringing it up?” Luke demands. “Or are you in denial?”

“I’m not in denial!”

“Then you have to talk to him about it! He’s young, but he can handle it if you help him do so. You’re his entire world, Din, you’re the center of his universe and anyone can see that. What’s left for him if you die— _ when  _ you die? You aren’t immortal. And you aren’t  _ young.  _ He has to be ready for—“

“This!” Din snaps, gesturing behind him. “This is—“ He stops himself and takes a breath to calm himself, fists tight at his side, scowling beneath the helmet. He  _ won’t  _ get worked up because of  _ Skywalker.  _ “This entire  _ place  _ is what he’ll have. Most, if not all the Mandalorians in the galaxy. Our tribe. Our family. He’ll have this no matter what happens to me.”

“What does it matter?” Luke steps up to him. “What does  _ any  _ of that matter to him without you? He doesn’t know how to live without you right there.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

_ “Talk  _ to him,” Luke says, and his tone turns pleading. “He deserves that, and he needs to hear it from you. He needs you to explain what it means, how to prepare for it. Let him ask you questions.” He takes a deep breath. “I can help if you need it, but… you’re the one he needs to hear it from.”

Din looks at him in silence.

Luke meets his gaze, and he gives a sad smile, picking up another tool. “I wouldn’t expect you to want to think about it,” he says. “No one would. And it’s  _ great  _ that he has all this, even after you’re gone. But grief is… it does things. He’s an emotional kid. If you can talk to him, help him get a better grasp on what will happen, so he’s ready? Then he’ll have a better chance of processing it well.”

Din grasps his hands into fists, letting out a breath. “Do you know how long he’ll live?” he asks, his voice quiet. While the anger is still there, it has cooled down, instead faced with the stark reality.

“My guess is 900,” Luke says. “Master Yoda was the only one of his species I’ve ever met, much less seen. He was powerful in the Force. I think their species has a natural gift.” He turns back to the ship, pulling out some wires. “He died at that age, and passed into the Force. Unless something happens to him, I think Kuiil’s got a long road ahead of him.”

Din bites his lip. “Do you think he’ll remember me on his own?” he asks. “Or will I just be… some memory in the back of his mind?”

Luke stops again and looks back at him with a smile. “I don’t know how you’d think that,” he says. “You’ll never be less than his greatest memory. Maybe there’ll be a time when he doesn’t think of you every day, but…” He shakes his head. “No one will be able to top what you’ve done for him. No one can love him more. I’m sure of it.”

Din manages a slight smile of his own, then rolls his shoulders. “There’s something we’re doing for him,” he says. “It’s… a project. So he’ll remember.”

“Project?” There’s a spark from the wires and a muttered  _ “there we go”  _ before they’re shoved back in and Luke is replacing the panel.

“I’m not in denial,” Din says. “... We’ve been planning for it. It’s what I want your help with. You can contribute.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Now?”

Luke pauses and looks back. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“You think I want to be there?” Din shakes his head. “Not my... thing.”

Luke smiles, then starts to seal the panel in its place. “Just give me a minute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la - not gone, merely marching far away (tribute to dead comrades)
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	4. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuiil prepares for a helmet while Din tries to figure out how to talk to him. Kirana makes Ari an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

The next morning goes as anyone could expect post-celebration. Several Mandalorians get up in the mornings without a problem, but most confine themselves to bed in the midst of hangovers. Some are surely passed out in one place or another, and there’s a mess that needs to be cleaned up at some point.

In the early hours, Din and Luke are in the gym, panting as they clash in brilliant displays of light.

The gym is empty, leaving them with privacy as the arcs of black, white and green crash towards each other. The dance has never gotten easier for Din, only a bit more manageable, learning the steps and swings and the weight. The flurried hits coming his way are still panic-inducing, struggling to stay on his feet and stay distanced as he blocks them all. But he’s learned to recognize Luke’s signals, when he plans to strike a certain way at a certain place. How to block and spin right into an attack. The dance is difficult, leaving him exhausted, but the Darksaber is a settled weight in his hands and a familiar tool.

Not that Luke doesn’t manage strikes against him with almost no effort, well-placed hits against beskar that are almost teasing. There seems to be no matching with a jedi master; it just isn’t  _ possible.  _ Din scowls, backing away, resetting his stance with the Darksaber held out as a guard. “Alright.”

Luke gives him a tired but knowing smile. He steps forward with a slash and Din blocks it down before he’s parrying another, forced back by the speed of the swings. He pants for air, sucking in a breath as he’s ducking to avoid the green blade. He drops into a crouch but then jams his vambrace controls. His jetpack engines flare and he drives through Luke, sending them both tumbling across the mat. Din rolls, but gets to his feet as Luke groans with the shock, lightsaber fallen from his hand.

He’s older. But still in it.

The jedi rolls over and reaches out a hand towards his saber. Just as the weapon shakes, Din throws his fist out and the grappling wire shoots to wrap around Luke’s arm, jerking it forward. Luke hisses, then scrambles up to a knee and throws his other hand towards the saber. It flies into his grasp and he slashes through the wire, standing. He shoves a hand out. Din is pushed back, stumbling, until he catches himself and swings the Darksaber around.

His muscles tremble. His thighs burn, both quads and hamstrings protesting their treatment. He hasn’t had the thrill of a real fight in so long, only brief tussles between the issues that need his attention. He’s out of practice. And few are willing to go against him with the Darksaber, fewer willing to give him a real challenge.

Except for Paz. Paz is always happy to knock him on his ass,  _ Mand’alor  _ or not.

For a moment, they only regard each other, slow to circle. Luke feints a strike, but Din doesn’t fall for it, only raising his guard. Finally he does sweep in and Din shoots up to block. He kicks his heel towards Luke’s middle but the jedi flips over him, just escaping it to land on the other side. They slash again and this time lock together at the base of their sabers, grinding and hissing as the blades bite each other.

Then Luke dips and twists around, ripping the Darksaber from Din’s grasp, and it clatters to the floor several feet away.

Din can’t turn his attention before there’s a green arc coming for him and he throws his forearms up in an X, blocking the blade. It shrieks against the beskar and Luke’s weight leans into it. Din grits his teeth, then sidesteps as he breaks the X, letting the blade crash down into the mat just as he lands a kick at Luke’s hip. The jedi gasps and stumbles back, face twisted with discomfort, until he comes back on him again with another swing.

Din ducks beneath it, backing up, hand dropping to his holster. Luke follows. He pulls his blaster and fires two shots, both deflected off into different directions. Just before he can get too close, Din hits his controls and launches into the air. He fires off several more shots, all dodged or deflected. 

Until one comes back and hits him in the arm. 

He hisses and drops down, concentration lost as he lands with a painful  _ thud,  _ pain making itself known in his arm. Luke’s lightsaber shuts off with a hiss, and he appears at Din’s side, a worried expression on his face. “Hey,” he says. “Are you--”

Din drops his blaster, launching himself forward to tackle Luke down to the ground. Both grunt with the force, panting, and Luke throws his weight over to roll them again. He straddles Din’s waist, lightsaber hissing again as it ignites. It hums as it hovers above his neck. Din lets out a breath, gritting his teeth, arm aching with blaster burn. The Darksaber is somewhere far from his grasp, and for a moment they just sit there. Their chests heave, Luke’s face shines with sweat. Din feels the same under his clothes.

He can think of a way to escape. But with requirement of his injured arm, the chances of a lightsaber incident are too high. “Yield,” he grumbles, scowling.

Luke climbs off him, standing as the lightsaber shuts off, and he holds a hand out. Din takes it, standing up, and he looks around to find the Darksaber. It’s sitting several feet away and Din walks over to grab it. He clips it to his belt in its usual spot. His hand comes to cradle his arm, wincing at the burn. The fabric of his garments has a hole burned through, the damage visible.

“Are you okay?” Luke asks, walking over. “I didn’t mean to send that one back at you.”

“It’s fine,” Din sighs. “I’ll live.”

Luke frowns, putting his lightsaber on his own belt clip. “You seem distracted,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Din rolls his shoulders. “I promised the kid I’d get him started on a helmet,” he says. “Seems like it could be a good segue into… that talk.”

“He’d love a helmet,” Luke says with a smile. “I think he’s ready to talk about it. He just needs  _ you.” _

Din takes a deep breath and looks down at the Darksaber. He watches it for a moment, how it hangs completely still on his belt, how its presence is so ordinary to him. He relaxes his shoulders. “Need to find my kid,” he mutters.

“Go,” Luke says, nodding.

Din turns, cradling his arm as he leaves the gym.

Kuiil spent the night with Broedy, and he’s reluctant to leave Paz’s quarters when more fun is promised with his cousin. Din stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame as Kuiil gets his armor back on.

“We  _ could  _ have you measured for a helmet later...”

That grabs his attention like nothing else. “Helmet!” he squeaks, and he’s over and in front of Din with his vambraces on in a snap. “Yes! Helmet, I want that.” Din smiles at him. The kid turns and looks up at Paz, “I’m getting a helmet.”

“I heard,” Paz says with amusement. “It’ll be a fine one.”

_ “Buir,  _ let’s go!”

“Thanks for watching him.”

“Not a problem.”

They walk out of the room and into the hallway. Kuiil is quick to jump up into his arms, claiming his usual spot, only to draw a wince from Din as his arm is jostled. Kuiil stops and looks at him with a frown.  _ “Buir?” _

“Arm,” Din mutters. “Took a shot.”

“A  _ shot?”  _ Kuiil demands, staring at him. He looks down at his arm and huffs at the sight of the blaster wound.  _ “Buir!” _

“It’s fine.”

“No!” Kuiil huffs at him, then reaches down and puts a hand out. Din moves him away, but the kid scowls and pulls himself over again. He rests his hand just beneath the wound, earning a hiss from Din, but it’s quickly soothed away. Din watches with a tight jaw as the redness fades, the pain smoothed away by relief, skin regrowing like there was nothing at all. “... There.”

Din sighs. Kuiil gives him a smile, only looking a little less energetic, but he isn’t sleepy. He  _ has  _ gotten better as he gets older, less exhausted by the efforts of healing injuries with Luke’s help. “I didn’t need that,” Din says. “You don’t have to--”

“You  _ did.” _

Din doesn’t respond. He just shakes his head.

The walk down to the forge room is quiet. Mandalorians begin to leave their quarters, looking tired and slow as they start the day. It’s late, but not terribly so, and more will crawl out of bed later. The kid is at a consistent, low vibrational state, restless in Din’s arms but quiet. He gets more excited as they approach the forges, starting to feel the heat and hear the hammering.

_ “Buir!”  _ Kuiil whispers. “Like yours?”

“It can be like mine.”

“Yeah. Like yours.”

Some of the forges are empty, their owners not yet risen, but their tribe’s armorer is present. The forge burns hot with blue flame, but nothing is being made. She instead stands at a table, a holographic model of what looks like a cuirass in front of her, pauldrons to the side. As Din and Kuiil approach, she looks over and stands.

_ “Mand’alor,”  _ she says, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Din stops and frowns. “You don’t…”

“I know.” She walks over to them. “What have you come for?”

“I want a helmet for him,” he says. Kuiil squirms, a look of pure delight on his face as he looks up at the Armorer, ears perked and big eyes near sparkling. “He’s progressed in training. He should have one to adjust to.”

“Hm.” It’s a thoughtful sound, and her gaze feels intense as she looks Kuiil over with a critical eye. “... Such a helmet is something to put effort into. Our tribe is human but for him. It may take multiple attempts to get right.” She looks down at his hands. “Far more complicated than vambraces.”

He holds them up with pride, smiling.

“We have time,” Din says. “Plenty of it.”

“We do.” She turns and walks back to the workbench, picking up a small tool, and Din recognizes the measuring tape. For a moment, he’s brought back several years to their covert’s former home. When Kuiil was still little, excited about  _ everything, _ still learning to speak. When Din sat by the forge with the child in his lap, trying to keep him patient as his first vambraces were forged from the same beskar that brought him into Din’s life.

Din isn’t sentimental. He doesn’t think hard on these sorts of things, on the past when it comes to emotions. He’s not one for deep emotions, anyway. But he sets the kid down on the floor and watches him stand tall with pride as the Armorer takes measurements. The kid’s excitement radiates through their minds, bright and delighted, perfectly happy. For a moment, he can’t help but smile, and think that maybe, everything they’ve gone through is worth it.

Worth it to see the kid smile like this.

The Armorer is careful with the measurements, and far more thorough than usual. He isn’t human, and that has to be accounted for. Din stands back and watches, a warm feeling running through him.

_ “My own helmet?” he whispers, staring at the one being held out to him. It’s shining silver beskar, the visor staring back at him. _

_ “Try it,” his  _ buir  _ says with a smile, pushing the helmet into the twelve-year-old’s hands. “We’ll find your closest size and go from there.” _

_ Din looks up at him, then grabs it with a grin. _

“We’ll leave holes for ears,” the Armorer says, measuring the space between them. “We may be able to create a protective layer for them, something flexible, but encasing them will be a detriment.”

Kuiil nods, holding perfectly still.

_ “It’s a little big,” Din grumbles. He looks into the mirror, peering through the visor with a frown. “How do you see?” _

_ “It looks like it fits. We can pack the inside.” His father squeezes his shoulder. “There is no HUD in it yet. You’ll adjust.” _

When the measurements are done, Kuiil is near bouncing. “When can it be done?” he asks, rocking on his feet.

“Patience,” the Armorer says, but it’s a gentle reprimand. “It may take time. It is not a standard design, so it will require multiple attempts for something that fits you properly.  _ N’epar nu pirur.” _

Kuiil stares up at her with big eyes. “Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah.” As the Armorer turns back to the workbench, she sets the measurements aside and Kuiil turns back, walking to Din. He scoops the kid up into his arms, then glances towards the workbench. He doesn’t miss the cuirass design, devoid of anything truly Mandalorian. He frowns.

“Who is that for?” he asks.

The Armorer glances at it, then at him. “For our potential returner,” she says. “I am forging it as she prefers.”

Din looks at it for a moment, frowning to himself. But he doesn’t say anything before he’s bowing his head and turns towards the door. The heat of the forges rescinds behind them, and Kuiil is still energetic in his arms. “How long do you think it’ll take?” he whispers. “To have it for real?”

“A little bit of time,” Din murmurs. “A couple of days at least.”

Kuiil pouts.

“We need to talk.” Din adjusts him. “Let’s get breakfast.”

In the safety of their quarters, they eat together. The kid is entirely unconcerned about what their conversation might entail, still riding on the high of his incoming helmet and the deliciousness of breakfast. Din watches him every few moments, both working through their food until they’re picking at scraps.

“I talked to Luke,” he says.

Kuiil looks up, licking his lips before he swallows it down.

“About what you told me he’d said,” he clarifies. “About… outliving me.”

The kid stares at him, then  _ deflates,  _ any semblance of a smile fading. “Oh,” he says, his voice soft. “... Oh.”

“We should talk about it,” Din says. “We should have. A long time ago. And… better late than never.”

The kid looks conflicted, taking a deep breath, shifting with discomfort. “I don’t…” he pauses. “I don’t think I want to.”

“But we need to.” Din looks at him.  _ “Kid.” _

Kuiil frowns at him, then he swallows and starts to pick at his food again. “Okay,” he whispers.

Din looks at him, sucking in a breath, then looks at his own food. “Luke said he mentioned it to you when… we met him,” he says, looking up again. “And that was years ago. You never brought it up.”

Kuiil stares at him, and already tears are starting to prick in his eyes. “I-I didn’t…” He pauses again. “I’m. Sorry. I didn’t… I… should’ve…”

_ “Ad’ika,”  _ Din says, “come here.”

The kid is quick to get up, to edge around their plates and collapse into Din’s lap. Din pulls him close, arms tight around him, leaning their foreheads together. For a moment, they only sit like this, and Din rocks slowly with him as if he were a baby again. It’s quiet, the barest noise coming from the hallway outside, an atmosphere of calm. He rubs the boy’s back as he sniffles, trying to calm down, face hidden in his cuirass.

“I’m not mad at you for not telling me,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kuiil looks up at him with teary eyes.

“I don’t…” Din stops, taking a breath, and he runs a hand over the kid’s ear. “I don’t want you keeping that to yourself and… being afraid of it. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. And I should’ve talked to you myself.”

Kuiil draws in a trembling breath, claws digging into Din’s undersuit, leaning his head into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to die,” he whispers.

Din is quiet for a moment, holding him in tight, and he strains to look for the right words. “I don’t intend on it,” he says. “But everyone dies sometime. We’ve lost people already. People who died trying to stop Gideon.”

The kid is silent.

“Death is… it’s an inevitability.” He looks down at the kid. “It’s painful to deal with. I lost my parents, and… it took a long time before I’d accepted it. When my  _ buir  _ died, it felt like I’d lost everything. I had nothing without him. It’s okay to feel like that. You’re  _ going  _ to feel like that.”

“But I don’t want to.” The kid’s voice trembles. “I don’t  _ want _ to feel that! You can’t -- you can’t die, you  _ can’t,  _ you…”

“You will be okay.” Din’s voice is firm as he leans their foreheads together again. “You will. You will have this place. You’ll have our tribe. Our friends. People who care. Death happens. Mandalorians know how to deal with death.”

That seems to squash a little of the kid’s panic, his breath evening some more. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he whispers.

“You are.” Din gives him a small smile. “And you can talk to me about this,  _ ad’ika.  _ I know I’m… not the best with words.” Kuiil smiles back. “But you can ask questions. Of me, of anyone. Whatever you want to know. This is the Way.”

“Th-This is the Way.”

For a few minutes, they sit in silence. Din turns and leans back against the wall, letting the kid sprawl out on his chest. A small face burrows in against his neck, breathing soft, claws dug into his undersuit. Their minds are meshed together, blended, and the kid’s emotions pour into him.

_ Fear. Nervous. Unsure. Anxious. _

Din keeps a hand firm against his back, leaning his cheek on the kid’s head. Their eyes are shut, laying in place, just existent.

_ “Gar kar’taylir darasuum,”  _ Din says. The kid looks up at him, then rubs at his eyes, wiping away the tears.

_ “Gar kar’taylir darasuum,”  _ he whispers back.

“I’m trying to make things better.” Din looks down at him, then shifts, looking towards his helmet instead. “For the Mandalorians. For our tribe. I want to do everything right.” He pauses. “But you’re my priority. You always will be.”

Kuiil sniffs and gives him a small smile. “You’re important,” he whispers. “Really important.”

“I don’t care to be  _ Mand’alor.  _ I’m your  _ buir  _ first. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

Kuiil stares up at him and his eyes fill with tears again before he buries his face in Din’s shoulder, trembling before his first sob breaks out. It’s muffled in the fabric of his undersuit and Din gives him a squeeze, rubbing his back. Clawed hands dig deeper, and he hears nothing but Kuiil’s cries.

The emotions hit him. While laced through with a faint sense of  _ misery,  _ it’s overwhelmingly a sense of  _ love.  _ Desperate affection floods his senses, a desire to never let go of him, a feeling that he can reflect back.  _ Buir,  _ Kuiil thinks, a mental mantra as he whimpers into his clothes.  _ Buir, Buir… _

Din holds him as tight as he can, an overwhelming wave of adoration hitting him, and his thoughts begin to race.

“We’ll travel again,” he promises. Kuiil barely quiets, holding back his hiccups. “You. And me. The  _ Razor Crest  _ still flies. We’ll fuel up and just… go. See whatever there is to see.”

The boy holds onto him, trembling. “Just g… go.”

“Just go.” Din pauses. “Soon,  _ cyar’ika.” _

Kuiil looks up with a smile.

The alcohol is… fine. Not that she’s ever been one to care about what she’s drinking. There were bigger things to worry about in the galaxy than how good her drink was, when it achieved the end goal of losing feeling.

Her legs hang over the edge of the landing pad. It’s a long drop down, one she won’t survive without the jetpack she doesn’t have. And even if she had one, well, she wouldn’t know how to use it. The tunnels of Nevarro were no place to learn how to fly. The lava boat being stuck in place had always been evidence of how they weren’t allowed out. Fuel was precious. And if they broke a jetpack… some breaks couldn’t be fixed.

She can’t fly.

Not even in her dreams.

She takes another swig of her drink and doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching until Kirana is sitting down next to her, helmet clicking against her cuiss where it hangs from her belt.

The older woman is… kind. Caring. Ari hasn’t spent much time in her presence, but it’s clear how much she loves her tribe. She can see familiar qualities in her -- fierce like the Armorer. Protective like Din. Devoted like Paz. And entirely Mandalorian.

And she takes her helmet off like it’s nothing.

“This must all be painful memories for you.”

She stares down between her knees at the ground below. “Yeah.”

“The  _ al’verde…  _ your  _ ba’vodu.  _ He was vague, but… mentioned what was done to you.” Kirana’s voice is soft. “By Gideon. That was… horrific. I’m sorry.”

Her stomach twists. She swallows the feeling back. “It… happened.”

“It shouldn’t have.” Kirana looks at her. “I don’t understand your tribe’s belief about helmets and faces. I was thirteen when I became a foundling. We didn’t follow that at all. But you were a child, and your tribe still…”

“Still left me behind?” Ari snaps. “I know.” She takes another drink, slamming it down beside her. “Trust me, I know.”

Kirana is quiet for a moment, watching her. “I won’t pretend to understand,” she says. “But… it means a lot to my tribe. That you were willing to help us and bring us back here. We owe you much more than an ingot of beskar.”

Ari pauses, then looks at her.

“You single handedly saved us. You might not realize that.” Kirana gives her a sad smile. “We were pinned and losing too many. Even just your distraction saved several of us.” She pauses.  _ “Vor entye.  _ Whatever you might need that we can help with -- we’ll do it.”

Ari looks at her, then swallows and leans back on her hands. “I wasn’t going to walk away,” she mutters. “You needed help.”

“You would’ve had the right to. To walk away then, or save us and then just leave us somewhere rather than come here. I would’ve understood why. I’m grateful.”

They lapse into silence. Ari takes a deep breath, then another drink, feeling… off. “My old tribe’s Armorer,” she says. “She says they think different now. That they’ve  _ changed.  _ That this whole Mando society thing wouldn’t work if they hadn’t changed.”

“That seems right,” Kirana says, her voice soft. “My people wear helmets for battle or travel, not home. It would be easy to reject us if they thought that way.” She shifts, looking up at her. “Do you believe them?”

“That they changed?” Ari huffs. “... Maybe. Sure. But so what? How does that change anything for me?”

“They love you,” Kirana says. “I’ve been here for all of a day and it was obvious how much the  _ Mand’alor  _ and  _ al’verde  _ care about you. I saw you reunite with your family. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that they’d welcome you back if you wanted it.”

“Who says I want it?” She doesn’t mean to snap, it’s just… all she can do lately. “Who says I want to go back to the people who rejected me over a helmet? It… they…” She trails off, swallowing.

Kirana stops, looking thoughtful. “I think you’re the only one who can say that,” she says with a shrug. She offers a smile. “I think you deserve the choice. A decision was made for you years ago, and it was irreparable harm at the time. It still is. You might not be able to come back from that as the same person. But you should have the choices in front of you, and it be your choice only.”

Ari looks at her, then swallows. She stares down at the bottle in her hands, gripping its neck, her grasp tightening and releasing in a wave motion. A shaky breath escapes.

“I talked to the  _ al’verde.  _ And with my people.” Kirana smiles. “There wasn’t much discussion for it. We want to offer you a place in our tribe.”

Ari stops and turns to stare at her. For a moment, staring is all she can do, until she straightens up and feels her heart race. “You…”

“We’re not much,” Kirana says quickly. “Small in numbers, just large in hearts. But we owe you a debt. We aren’t your home tribe, but if you--”

“No, no. Thank… thank you. That’s… a lot to offer.”

Kirana has a warm expression on her face. “I don’t want to force anything on you,” she says. “Just give you the option. If you say yes, we’d love to have you. No, and we understand.” She shrugs. “If you don’t give an answer, the invitation stays open.”

With that, she gets up, her helmet clicking again against the beskar. “Just let me know,” she says, her voice soft. Then she’s walking away, footsteps receding as she disappears from the hangar through a door.

Ari stares at her cuisses, the words reeling through her mind. She takes a long, deep breath, then reaches for the bottle again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Gar kar'taylir darasuum - I love you  
> Cyar'ika - darling/sweetheart  
> Al’verde - commander  
> Vor entye - thank you
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	5. The Step Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuiil achieves a dream while Din makes a decision for their future. They begin the first steps to a new dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

“What do you think?”

The helmet sits on Kuiil’s head, and for a few moments, the kid is only staring at the ground with two hands settled against it. It’s unlike any Mandalorian helmet Din has ever seen, and yet matches in with their people with perfection. It’s their third attempt at creating the customized piece that doesn’t apply uncomfortable pressure or block his vision, allows his ears to move and isn’t too heavy to wear. It’s similar to Din’s with silver beskar and a simple-cut visor.

“Weird,” the kid whispers, his voice coming filtered.

“Kuiil,” Din says. “Does it fit?”

Kuiil looks up and around, gaze scanning the room, and finally he turns towards Din. The bond between them glows with excitement. “It fits!” he says, tilting his head from side to side. He laughs. “It fits. I like it.”

“Test your controls,” the Armorer says, her voice even.

The kid turns to look up at her, awkward as he has to stop and turn fully. Then he reaches up to the buttons on the helmet, grinning as he begins to push them. He stares down at the floor,  _ “Whoa,”  _ as he goes through the different HUD configurations. “Whoa.” He turns towards Din. “It’s so weird!”

“Your vambrace is programmed,” Din says. “Remember?”

Again, Kuiil does a double take before looking down at the buttons on his vambraces. They’ve been useless for years, added as an aesthetic choice rather than a functional one. Now, he presses one and gasps as the HUD cycles through further visual options. “Oh,” he whispers. “Whoa!”

Din looks at the Armorer, his arms crossed. “Thank you,” he says. For just a week, it was an impressive task to complete, when considering she had other projects to tend to. “I think he can entertain himself for hours now.”

The kid stumbles about, spinning in circles to test his vision with giggles. The Armorer watches. “It is fitting for him to wear it,” she says with words that seem long since echoed. “He will have quite a time adjusting to it.” She looks at him. “You are sure about the decision you’ve made?”

Din frowns. “I’m sure,” he says. “It’s what’s right for us.”

“You may not receive a welcome response,” she says. “You have done well by our people.”

He looks at Kuiil.

“But you are the leader of your clan,” she continues. “They will have to accept it.”

Din nods and crosses his arms. He knows what the upcoming reactions will be to the change, but he’s been thinking past that. It will be good for him and the kid. He isn’t needed any longer. It gives him relief rather than regret.

_ “Vor entye!”  _ Kuiil calls, catching his balance again.

“You’re welcome.”

The kid stumbles over with another laugh before he collapses against Din’s legs, grabbing up. He looks up at Din. “I like it.”

Din crouches down and lifts him up into his arms. “It will take you time to get used to it,” he says, and the Armorer returns to her forge as they head for the hallway. “Turn with your head, not your eyes. Your peripheral vision is different.”

“My periph-- my periff…”

“Peripheral,” Din says. “The edges.”

_ “Peripheral.” _

“Good.”

Kuiil twists and stands in Din’s arms, climbing up onto his shoulder. He sits there, facing forward, feet dangling and hands on Din’s pauldron and helmet. “When did you get a helmet?” he asks.

“I was…” Din pauses. “Twelve. My  _ buir  _ was there with me.” He holds onto Kuiil’s shins with one arm as they walk, keeping him in place. Other Mandalorians around them turn to look. Many smile at the sight of the helmeted boy and Kuiil looks around at them, his pride and excitement pulsating through their bond. “It was what made me feel like a Mandalorian.”

Kuiil is quiet. He swings his feet, tapping against the beskar as he looks around. “Me, too,” he says, and Din looks up at him. Their helmeted gazes meet and Kuiil lets out a laugh before he slumps over Din’s helmet, holding onto him.  _ “Buir!” _

Din chuckles and grabs the kid. “Stop. I can’t see.”

Soon after, Kuiil races off on his own to show off his shiny new helmet to anyone who will look. “I can take it off, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Din says, “you haven’t sworn your--”

Kuiil is already gone.

Din watches the space he’d just occupied, allowing himself a smile before he’s instead steeling himself for what’s ahead. He begins the trek from the hallways near the forge room to their tribe’s sector of the base, where they live amongst the others. Paz is usually there now, he’s sure, taking time between the typical tasks of the day. He walks with purpose but does not race, allowing himself to take in the space around him.

Everywhere he goes, Mandalorians walk.

Din isn’t one for sentiment. He doesn’t gush over nostalgia, over the past, when the past ceases to mean anything. Today is more important. Today is what he has any sway over. Today is what they have, and tomorrow is always a question mark when they could very well die. He was raised to follow that.  _ Life doesn’t owe you tomorrow. _

_ “Mand’alor,”  _ they call him. When he walks past, they nod to him as their show of respect for his position, and the Darksaber feels heavy on his belt. Around him, life continues on. Warriors stand together, laughing and talking with each other, different tribes mingled together in a way they couldn’t have imagined. A group of children runs past, and he has to step out of their way, their apologies called out though they’ve already gone. Somewhere, a baby cries, and Din feels the sound reverberate in his memories.

He feels tired.

The exhaustion sits in his bones, down in his core. The Mandalorians have united beneath him, every tribe they can find gathered together, but it has taken its toll on him. The responsibility weighs him down like stones at his ankles, the discomfort of leadership eating away. Kuiil wasn’t the only one to come after from their conversation with a better understanding of how things stand.

He comes to their tribe’s quarters. He sees more familiar helmets here. Ji’an and Hewen are at an intense game of chess, barely giving him a glance as he walks by. Hilla and Broedy sit near, the older girl showing the boy how to clean his vibroblade best. Din knows she’s a stickler for weapons care. A few more of their people are around, warriors and new foundlings alike, giving him nods, engaged in their own activities. He gets barely any acknowledgment from his own tribe, not that that’s new.

_ This doesn’t make you special, Djarin,  _ Griphin had teased. And he feels relief that they don’t treat him different. He’s still their  _ beroya. _

He looks around and feels his resolve about his decision strengthening.

Paz is found in his own room, wiping down his pauldron with an oiled cloth. Din stops at the door and brings his hand up, knocking a few times out of courtesy. “Come in,” he’s told, and he steps through. Paz looks up with the pauldron in hand. “Din?”

Din reaches over and taps the door’s button, sliding it shut. “I want to talk,” he says. “Before… I do something.”

Paz watches him. “Do what?”

“I’m stepping down,” he says. “From the  _ Mand’alor  _ position. I’ve already decided it’s what’s best for the kid but I don’t want to surprise you when I make it official.”

For a long moment, their gazes hold. Paz is silent as he watches Din, but his helmet lowers again and he continues wiping at the beskar. “You’re sure about this,” he says.

Din nods. “I am,” he says. “It has been long enough. I want to take Kuiil in the  _ Razor Crest  _ and fly again. Travel. Like we did before.”

“Will it fly again?”

“We’ll find out.”

Paz looks up, then lets out a sigh. “You’re a better leader than you may think, Din,” he says. “You could hold onto it for a few years longer. Good with that saber.”

Din glances down at the Darksaber. “I don’t want it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The councils, the decision, the damn saber. It’s not me. It won’t last forever.” He pauses.  _ “I  _ won’t last forever.”

“You’re doing this for Kuiil.”

“We’ve all been making memories but I want a few more in person.”

Paz lowers the pauldron and nods. “You’re sure about this,” he says.

“Call the tribe leaders,” Din says, and Paz nods as he gets up. “I’m done.”

Elsewhere in the compound, Kuiil dashes around every corner.

He’s getting used to the HUD. He’ll swear he is. Those few wall crashes are just practice runs and they don’t count. Besides, he has an endless stream of friends and adults to find who can ooh and aah over his shiny new helmet. He’s endlessly taking it on and off, handing it to others, and barely getting it back before he’s off again to find someone else. Nothing can spoil his good mood. His face hurts from smiling and the pride radiates for him. He just needs to find Luke. Paz, too, but Kuiil hasn’t been able to find him.

He’s on track towards the hangar, where Luke is usually found, when he turns his head and sees Ari.

The armor is distinct enough in how plain it is, even from behind, that he knows it’s her. He skids to a stop, almost slipping, before he’s back up and ready to show her the helmet. He’s lifting it off, momentarily blinded, when he hears the other voice. His grin fades and he lifts it off, clutching the helmet close as he walks over.

“... don’t know.” Ari sighs. Her Force signature is frustrated and stressed, emotionally clouded. His  _ buir  _ feels like this some days, and Kuiil frowns. “I just… don’t know. It feels both right and wrong.”

“There isn’t any pressure here,” says the other Mandalorian. Kuiil comes up behind her, keeping quiet, and looks at who the other person is. It’s a woman with blonde hair, swept back, and she’s another Mandalorian who doesn’t wear a helmet like his tribe. Kuiil doesn’t remember seeing her before. “There are no constraints or catches. It’s a yes or a no, either answer, whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not a Mandalorian. I became  _ dar’manda.  _ I can’t…”

The woman frowns. “I don’t believe in your tribe’s practice,” she says, her voice soft, “and I won’t disrespect it. But it seems to me like enough decisions have been made for you. Whether or not you’re a Mandalorian should be up to y--”

She cuts off and looks down at Kuiil, who jumps in surprise and draws back. She smiles, “Hey there.”

Kuiil draws back a little further, but Ari looks down and her eyes widen before crouching to his level. “You got a  _ helmet?”  _ she says, grinning. Kuiil perks up again, matching her grin, and holds it out to her.

“It’s  _ perfect.” _

Ari takes the helmet and turns it in her hands to examine to shape. Behind her, the Mandalorian looks at Kuiil with narrowed, inquisitive eyes, and then crouches down, too. “You’re the  _ Mand’alor’s  _ boy, aren’t you?” she says. “I’ve heard about a little green foundling running around here.”

“I’m not  _ little!”  _ Kuiil defends, but he nods.

Ari snorts. “You’re tiny,” she says, and Kuiil huffs before giving her a kick to the shins. She just grins and shoves him back. “This is Kirana Souvare. This is Kuiil, my  _ bavodu’ad.” _

“Nice to meet you, Kuiil.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says, because that was what his  _ buir  _ taught him to say, even he doesn’t think of strangers as particularly  _ nice  _ yet. But she seems like she is. He looks up at Ari and whispers, “What’s going on?”

But Ari just smiles at him and shakes her head, even when he can feel that turmoil grow within her again. “Nothing,” she says. She hands him the helmet back. “It’s beautiful. Looks just like Din’s.”

Kuiil takes it back with a silent nod, frowning. He slips it back on. “I wanna find Luke,” he says, before looking up towards Kirana and back to Ari. “... You’re talkin’ ‘bout something.”

“Go find Luke. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re not supposed to keep secrets.”

_ “Go,  _ womp rat.”

Kuiil pouts at her, then remembers she can’t see it and just turns away. He starts walking again, the thoughts weighing heavy, but he breaks again into a run. The hangar is on the other side of the base from here but maybe if he runs, it can be considered part of his training for the day. 

On second thought, well. Not even  _ buir  _ might accept that.

But he’s quick and fast, the Force helping him along when he comes across empty hallways. When it’s crowded, the Force helps him duck and jump and slip through without losing speed. He rounds the corner, the hangar doors just down the hall. He can hear the ships taking off. He reaches out and can sense the lifeforms within, all the Mandalorians walking about--

He gasps when his head slams into the edge of the wall, sending him back onto the floor with a groan.

_ That  _ one hurt.

“Kuiil!”

Gentle hands grab him, pulling him up. “Dizzy,” he mumbles, but he looks up and sees two Lukes in front of him. He frowns and blinks, then watches the two merge back into one, and Luke is kneeling in front of him with a concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine!” Kuiil says with cheer, getting back up to his feet even as his head aches. “I was looking for you!”

“I was looking for you, too.” Luke smiles. “I see you got your helmet.”

“I di--” Kuiil pauses, hands up to take it off, when he pauses. “Did you  _ know?” _

Luke grins. “Your father might have mentioned it some time ago.”

Kuiil takes it off and squints at him, but hands it over. “It’s so  _ perfect,”  _ he says.

“It is,” Luke agrees, tilting the helmet to see its structure. He peers at the tech inside with interest, tilting it some more in the light. “... Impressive. You should be proud of it.”

“I am,” Kuiil says, smiling with that pride, but he looks back up at Luke and the smile fades. Luke’s cloak is on, flowing down to the floor around him, and Kuiil’s heart plummets. His expression turns crestfallen. “... You’re  _ leaving?” _

Luke looks at him, then hands the helmet back over. Kuiil takes it. “I have to return,” he says. “Some things have changed.”

“But it hasn’t been two weeks. You always stay two weeks.”

“I have other students I need to return to. It’s… more of a personal matter.” Luke smiles at him, then gets to his feet and brings Kuiil up into his arms. Kuiil leans into his shoulder, pouting with the helmet in his hands. “You know I’ll be back. I’m not going to leave you forever.” Luke smiles. “Who else could teach you  _ and  _ deal with all these Mandalorians?”

Kuiil manages a smile. “Yeah,” he says.

“Let’s find your father,” he says. “To say goodbye.”

Kuiil nods. “I think he’s up higher…”

When they find Din, it’s up in the east wing. Kuiil guides them there; Luke has never been to this part of the base and seems startled by how quiet it all is. The rooms are clean but empty, and as Kuiil explains, they’re all for any incoming tribes. “So they have somewhere to live,” he says.

Luke nods.

He can feel the Force signatures here. As they approach the  _ important room --  _ or, that’s what Kuiil has always thought of it as -- he can reach out and sense the people within, only to pull back and huddle against Luke instead. They all feel frustrated. His own  _ buir  _ is among them, his light shining different from the others, but with more tired resignation. His  _ ba’vodu  _ is there, too. Kuiil looks up at Luke, frowning, then leans further into his chest. They pause, both feeling the tension within.

The door slides open, and Mandalorians begin to spill out, each muttering beneath their breath. Luke steps out of the way, given helmeted looks that seem clear indicators of irritation while others just scowl. They’re all a scattered assortment of armor styles and colors. “Watch it,” one snaps at Luke, and Kuiil huffs.

_ “Usen’ye!”  _ he snaps back, and the Mandalorian at least appears chastised as he looks away.

But the Mandalorians clear and Kuiil doesn’t spot his  _ buir  _ among them. They walk into the room and he then can perk up.  _ “Buir!” _

His father looks up from where he leans on a table, hands planted on its surface. The Darksaber is settled on the top in front of him.  _ “Ad’ika,”  _ he mumbles, but he looks  _ tired.  _ Kuiil frowns, then jumps down from Luke’s arms and up onto the table, nearly missing the edge. But he grabs on and scrabbles up, reaching the top. He walks over and grabs onto Din’s arm, looking up at him, and his father sighs.

“They all seemed upset,” Luke says. “So do you.”

Din looks up at him. Then he turns towards Paz, their gaze shared, before he looks at Luke again. “... I resigned,” he says. “I’m no longer  _ Mand’alor.” _

“... Oh,” Luke says. “Did something happen?”

Din looks down at Kuiil, then reaches out and sets his hand on the kid’s head. “It was time,” he says, and Kuiil smiles. It thrums through their bond and he ducks under and up, coming to hug Din as best he can. Din sets a hand on his back, and Luke smiles at him. But he looks the jedi up and down, “Leaving?”

Luke nods. “There are others that need me more,” he says. “His control has been consistently good even as his powers grow. He can concentrate when I ask him to. If he keeps meditating, focusing, finding that balance for himself -- then I’m not concerned.” He crosses his arms and shrugs. “His flaw is that he’s a child. The emotional maturity comes with age.”

Kuiil looks at him, then up to Din. “What’s ‘matur’... ‘maturity’?”

“It’s… growing from your experiences,” Din says. Kuiil nods. “You’re leaving early -- still the usual schedule?”

Luke nods. “I’ll be back at the usual time,” he says. He pauses. “... Though, I’d like him to come to my temple a few times. I know you’ve never liked the idea, and I won’t push it. But I think it would be good for him to experience the Force at a temple. To meet my students again, now as more of a peer to them. It could help his learning.”

Din looks at him, then down at Kuiil. He’s only given a smile through their bond. “We’ll talk about it,” he says.

“Alright,” Luke says. “... You’ve done an incredible amount, Din, for him  _ and  _ your people. You should be proud of it. I’m glad I’ve met you both.”

Din pauses before he nods. “Thank you.”

Luke gives them a slight bow, then a wave to Kuiil before he turns and walks through the door. Kuiil watches him, then steps back from Din and looks up. “Can I go watch?” he asks.

“Go,” Din says.

Kuiil nods, then jumps down from the table and starts towards the door.

“Kid.”

He looks back at his father.

“Stay down there,” he says. “Give me a bit. We’ll take a look at the  _ Razor Crest.” _

Kuiil stares at him, then happiness flares through their bond. “Okay!” he says, and disappears through the doorway after Luke. Din smiles to himself.

“How’s it look?”

“Dusty,” Kuiil grumbles.

The  _ Razor Crest  _ is covered in a layer of dust, largely unused over time. Most other tribes had their own ships to bring and add to their tiny small fleet, and an old ship like the  _ Crest  _ has only been for supply trips when Din still flew. Now, it’s been parked. They stand inside the ship, looking around at it all, thoughts turned towards their future plans. So many things left for them to do in a massive galaxy.

“Still feels like home,” Din says.

“Home,” Kuiil agrees.

But not the same home. The weapons locker is empty. The cargo is moved out. Their personal belongings have been carried off and into the covert, then back in and back out again, finally removed for the final time when they came to this place. It… sits wrong like this. As Kuiil peers into the storage compartment that was once his bed, Din climbs up into the cockpit.

The dust covers everything. He eases down into the seat, looking at the controls. His eyes are drawn to the engine shift, where the metal ball is firmly screwed on, years retired from being a toy. He reaches over and flips the startup switches. The buttons flicker to life, systems powering up, ready to fly at his command again.

He eases his hands around the controls, letting out a breath at the freedom they promise.

“Where’ll we go?”

He turns and looks over his shoulder at Kuiil, who wanders into the cockpit with a hand on the doorway. Din stares at him with his helmet and armor, pausing, then lets go of the controls and looks around. “Anywhere we want,” he says.

Kuiil looks around. He climbs up into the copilot’s seat, settling down there -- no longer needing the gun case Din had turned into a cradle. Din watches him, then turns again. “We’ll clean it up,” he says. “Make it home again. And we’ll just go.”

“We’re… coming back?”

“Yes.” Din looks back at him. “We’re coming home. But when we want to.”

Kuiil smiles, then climbs down and comes over to Din, getting up and into his lap. Din just holds his arms up, giving him the space, until they’re both looking out the transparisteel.

The only view is of the hangar, the Mandalorians walking back and forth between ships. A few are rising into the air, flying out with care and then shooting out towards the sky. One returns, gliding into the hangar before it settles down into a section beside another ship. Kuiil leans back against Din, helmet gently clinking against his cuirass, as they sit in the quiet of the  _ Crest.  _ Their minds mold together, Kuiil pressing against Din’s with care. Since yesterday’s step down, he feels… a weight off his shoulders.

“You’re not  _ Mand’alor  _ anymore,” Kuiil says.

“I’m not.”

“Because of me?”

“... Yes.” When Kuiil’s shoulders slump, Din is quick to wrap his arms around him, holding the boy against him in a firm hug. “I want to have more time with you. I never wanted to be  _ Mand’alor.”  _

Kuiil reaches up to take his helmet off and turns to look up at Din. His eyes are shiny, but the tears don’t fall. He just leans his head into Din’s shoulder, snuggling in, and Din holds him.

“We’ll fly by the stars again,” Din says. “Just you and me.”

They both hold on as tightly as they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Vor entye - thank you  
> Beroya - bounty hunter  
> Usen'ye - go away! (very rude usage, very threatening from the tiniest Mandalorian on base)
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	6. The Last Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clan of two is ready for departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

The Mandalorians have mixed reactions to the recent change in leadership. Some who expected Din to stay longer are disappointed and mildly vocal in such thoughts. Others who didn’t like his less… _involved_ approach are content with it while others are relieved that it isn’t a _fundamentalist_ who will represent their shared interests.

But Din pays little attention to it.

They have to choose someone else, and as it stands, they’re looking at another tribe leader to take on the position. Din gives his input on the candidates and leaves it at that, hands washed of the matter. He’s not one for politics, never has been.

Instead, their time is taken up by the _Razor Crest._

Kuiil’s utter enthusiasm for their plans makes it the most enjoyable, and Din has never seen the kid so eager to clean. With containers of paint and all the cleaning supplies they can scrounge, they set to work on both the inside and out. As the kid wipes all the dust he can find, Din grabs a ladder and begins to reapply the faded orange paint, careful to keep his balance.

They’re barely ten minutes in when there’s a sudden but quiet gasp and a loud _hiss._ Steam begins to float from inside the ship, a thin white cloud spilling over the ramp, and Din’s head snaps over as he lowers the brush. “Kuiil!” he calls. “What did you do?”

There’s a shuffle, then Kuiil’s head pops out from around the corner, ears down. “Uh, hit the carbonite freezer,” he says, voice sheepish.

“Stay away from them,” Din says, his voice stern.

“But there was dust--”

“Don’t touch it.”

Kuiil’s ears flatten and his head dips under the reprimand, but he disappears back into the ship, and Din lets out a breath to let his heart calm before he turns back to painting. _Might at least learn from it,_ he thinks, dipping the brush into the orange paint again. Though he doesn’t want to explain to the doctors why his kid was frozen in carbonite.

“Din?”

Din stops and looks down at Ari, who stands a few feet away. His eyes are drawn to her face, but then to her armor. It’s become shiny, reforged into proper beskar rather than the earlier job, but still without the Mandalorian features the rest wore. Din frowns, then sets the brush on the bucket’s rim and begins to climb down. “Need something?” he asks.

Ari walks over and she’s wringing her hands together, teeth digging into her lip. He won’t get used to seeing her face. It’s too… he doesn’t even know how to describe it. “It’s going to fly again?” she asks, looking towards the ship rather than him. “Thought it was finally out of commission.”

“It’ll fly,” Din says.

She nods, still fidgeting before she takes in a breath and looks at him. “I want to talk to you,” she says. “About… something.”

“What is it?”

She crosses her arms, looking down at the ground, digging her toe into the metal. “... Kirana offered to let me join her tribe,” she says, not looking for his reaction. He doesn’t give one, letting the words wash over him instead. Behind her, Kuiil pops his head out again, watching. “She said it was the least they could do after I saved them, and it’s… it’s an open invitation for as long as it takes to decide.”

For a moment, they stand in silence. It takes a few seconds before she looks up at him again, and he sees that her eyes are shining with tears until she blinks them away. He lets out a breath, mulling over the words, and he looks up when he realizes it’s dragged on too long. “You want my thoughts on that?”

Ari’s jaw tightens. “... Yes.”

“You can do it.”

Ari pauses, doing a double-take before staring at him. “You…”

“You’re asking, so you’re thinking about it,” Din says. He pauses. “It’s not my call. I’m not our tribe leader or _Mand’alor._ What I say doesn’t hold any weight.”

She swallows. “Yes, it does,” she says, her voice quiet, unshed tears returning.

His chest tightens and he stops again to let his thoughts gather. Kuiil comes to Ari’s leg and grabs on beneath her knee, drawing their gazes down, and he stares up at her with lowered ears. Their armor matches in its shine. Din crosses his arms. “You want to come back,” he says. “To the Mandalorians.”

She shifts her weight, taking a deep breath. “Part of me _wants_ to,” she says. “To be… to feel like a Mandalorian again. And part of me… wants nothing to do with -- with…” She trails off before biting her lip, wiping the tears away. “With the tribe. With _this_ tribe.”

“With us,” Din says.

She nods.

“You have reason to feel like that,” Din says. “You have _every_ reason to… after what happened.” He frowns. “I don’t want to tell you what to do. We’ve made enough decisions for you.”

“I want you to tell me I can’t!”

Din looks at her.

Ari lets out a shaky breath, wiping at the tears again though her eyes have grown red. Kuiil has completely wrapped himself around her leg, staring up. “I want you to tell me _no,_ and then it’s _easier,”_ she says. “If I can’t come back, then it won’t matter that I want to come back and I can just _go.”_

Din frowns and shakes his head. “I can’t do that,” he says. “I’m not going to do that.”

She stares at him, then bites into her lip. “It’s too _hard,”_ she whispers. “I don’t… I don’t _know.”_

For a moment, they only look at each other. Din sets his hands down on his belt, turning to look up at the _Razor Crest,_ then back at her. “I’d give you an answer if I could,” he says. “... I want you back, _ad’ika._ We all do. But this is your call.”

She sniffs, hugging herself, before looking down at Kuiil. He tugs at her and she crouches down. He pushes up on his feet to whisper to her as Din climbs the ladder again, picking up the brush, dipping it in. He leaves them their privacy, beginning the long strokes against the ship, covering up the old paint with new. He can just barely hear the sounds of their whispering, Ari’s sniffs, the bump of beskar.

“Thanks,” Ari murmurs, and she stands. Din glances over, and she looks up at him, hands wringing again as Kuiil stands beside her. “... I’m… going to talk to _buir_ about it. And…”

Din nods. 

She bites her lip, then turns away.

 _“Vod’ad,”_ Din says.

She looks back.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was… too late. To fix things when I could have. Or... to stop it from happening at all.”

She watches him for a moment, then looks down at Kuiil, who still has a sad look on his face. She nods, jaw tight, and takes a deep breath. “Me too,” she says, before turning away and walking.

They watch her go. Din feels his stomach stir with guilt and he tries to swallow it down as he turns back to the ship. “Back to it,” he says, but Kuiil stands still for a little longer. Finally, he turns and starts back up towards the ship, only to stop and look at Din.

_“Buir?”_

Din looks over.

“Ari still has a soul?” he asks softly and Din lowers the brush, taking in a breath. “She’ll go to the Manda, right? With us?”

The conflicting emotion battles it out in his chest, but the kid is looking for a response and he swallows it all down for a second time. “Yes,” he says. “She has a soul. We’re… we’re all going to the Manda. One day.”

Kuiil’s ears are still drooped, but he nods and disappears back into the ship.

Din takes a deep breath and continues to paint.

It’s coming along nicely, he thinks. Once the ship has been cleaned out and gets a thorough inspection from an engineer, clearing it to operate, they work on personalizing it again. They don’t anticipate leaving any time soon -- not for a few weeks. Instead, they begin to move a few things. Din reinstates most of his weapon cache that isn’t regularly used, filling the closet again. He takes apart his vambrace controls, reprogramming his buttons to the ship’s functions rather than their room. Kuiil brings in his various trinkets that the star pilots have given him, small toys and baubles from off world now decorating his new bed.

“We’ll have to magnetize those,” Din tells him. “Or they’ll go everywhere.”

“Okay!” Kuiil says, smiling like it’s another fun adventure. Through it all, he happily dons his helmet, and Din always knows where he is in the ship when there’s a _bang_ from him walking into a wall.

With every _bang,_ Din can sympathize.

The weeks pass. In the midst of a power transition, there’s a sense of awkwardness within their compound, uncertainty at how this will go. Din takes up his training in a more serious capacity again, this time taking on Paz. The giant of a Mandalorian seems content to use their sparring matches as an outlet for the frustrations Din has left him. Din doesn’t mind. Whatever helps them both.

Until he’s thrown back against the mat, letting out a groan as his head hits the floor again. He’s slow to get up this time, head aching and dizzy. “Pause,” he gasps, hands on his knees. “... _Shit.”_

Paz watches him, flexing his hands. “Dune would have a field day with this,” he says. “She’d love to lay you out this easy.”

“I’m trying to get the practice,” Din scowls. “I know I’m out of it.”

“Try again.”

Din looks at him, then shifts his stance and tries to ignore the pounding in his head. He’s out of breath and aching. Despite his pain, they circle each other. He waits, _waits,_ feet ready and hands set. He doesn’t have to make the first move, not when Paz’s patience runs out so quick and he lunges in. Din grits his teeth and ducks beneath the swing, instead drawing up his knee to strike across his middle. It’s barely a hit, their beskar scraping, but the force behind it earns a grunt.

With renewed vigor, Din holds out.

Like the young boys they once were, neither hold back.

Paz has no problem grabbing and throwing him to the floor. Din gets back up and lands every hit as hard as he can. Both are sweating, grunting and hissing with effort, until they’re both struggling to really break the stalemate. Finally, they throw each other off, stumbling away. “Done,” Din mutters. “Done.”

Paz nods, letting out a huff.

They make their way to the side, slumping down on the bench against the wall to calm down. Din takes deep breaths before leaning back. The training gym is quiet, only the sound of the lights above and their own breathing through modulators. Din closes his eyes for a moment, feeling sweat run down his face, muscles relieved for the stillness.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For… how I’m leaving it.”

“For running,” Paz says.

Din frowns. “I’m not… _running.”_

“You’re patching up that ship and disappearing with the kid for who knows how long,” Paz says. “... I’m not condemning you for it, Din. That job was never who you are. If I’m honest, I’m surprised you kept the mantle as long as you did when it was so obvious you hated it. Being a good soldier doesn’t make you a good leader, too. You’re not one for command.”

Din leans back. In a way, it feels insulting, but… it’s true.

“Fatherhood suits you much better.”

Din looks over, then watches as the gym door opens and a few Mandalorians walk in. They talk and laugh among themselves, only throwing a few glances towards Din and Paz before they’re otherwise ignored. “He wants to do it,” he says. “Kuiil. Fixing the ship has been fun. He wants to see what’s out there.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

He pauses. “We’re still talking about it. One of the star pilots gave him a hologram map, and he’s been staring at it. Searching all the places he can find. He wants to do fun things.”

“What do you want?”

He bites his lip. “My kid,” he says. “... I just want my kid.”

They lapse into silence for a few moments, the words sinking in for them both.

“Has Ari…” Paz hesitates. “Talked to you?”

“About…”

“Something she was offered.”

“Joining the Afaran tribe,” Din says. “Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That it wasn’t my place to decide for her. You?”

“Something similar.” He can hear the soft, frustrated huff from Paz. “... Years ago, I would have said absolutely not. The helmet comes off, that’s it. You’ve lost the Way. The Creed can’t be mended after it’s broken. But… it’s _Ari.”_ He sighs. “I helped raise that girl. We all did. Watched her grow up. And after all that’s happened here…”

“Everything is different now,” Din says. “And she’s an adult now. Another tribe’s business isn’t ours.”

Paz nods.

“Do you think she’ll do it?”

“... I don’t know. I never knew what was going on in that head of hers. Well… yours, either.”

Din smiles. “How to beat you.”

“So not much at all.”

 _“Di’kut.”_ Din rolls his eyes as Paz chuckles.

In just weeks, the ship is complete. It’s given the clear to fly by their skilled maintenance techs and the kid is practically living in it already. “You’ll get sick of that soon,” Din tells him, but Kuiil just shakes his head.

“Never,” he says with confidence.

Din lets him believe that.

Their people are generous in helping them add to the comforts. Where Din is used to the simple decoration coming from his stored supplies, their tribe decides it should be otherwise. The day before they leave, he walks onto the ship and stops -- the first thing he notices is the painted locker doors. They’ve been turned black, a white mythosaur sitting even in the middle. He stares at it, then is slow to climb up to the cockpit.

On the upper portion of the ship, it splits into two directions, either the cockpit itself or to the sleeping quarters. Before he can decide on either, he stops to look at the tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. It’s a simple grey with a black Mudhorn signet painted on, a light installed above to illuminate it. It covers a vent and flutters gently with the air.

Din turns and looks into the sleeping quarters. Kuiil sits on his bed, looking down at his datapad of maps with his helmet beside him. “When did this happen?” he asks.

Kuiil looks over. He smiles. “Oh, this morning,” he says. _“Cuun aliit._ They said it was a surprise.”

Din looks at it again. 

The entire ship has been detailed. The nav computer has been removed and replaced, becoming a hologram rather than simply a screen. If not for the old model of the ship, it would appear completely new to Din, all signs of age removed from the interior and replaced or scrubbed away. As he sits in the new pilot’s chair, already feeling more comfortable in it than the last, he glances out the transparisteel.

Kuiil’s footsteps approach. He jumps up onto the control panel where he’d once sat as a baby, a hand on the wall for support, the helmet back on. He’s gotten so big, Din thinks, though he doesn’t know when he’s hit full growth. Their bond glows with warmth. “Where are we going first?” he asks.

Kuiil’s ears twitch. “... I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Can’t _decide.”_

Din brings his hands to the joysticks, feeling them in his grasp. He rotates them, feeling the range of motion, before leaning back further in the chair. “Somewhere new?” he asks. “Or somewhere you don’t remember?”

Kuiil looks at him.

“What about Sorgan?”

The kid’s face is hidden but he lights up through their bond. “I don’t remember Sorgan,” he whispers with an excited tone. “You said Sorgan was nice.”

“Sorgan was very nice. They’d like to see you again.”

Kuiil’s grin reaches through their bond and Din smiles, too.

“But how _long?”_

Din listens from the ship to the disappointed whines of Kuiil’s friends, the little ones all gathered at the base of the ramp to say goodbye. Broedy is the least content with today’s departure, still hugging Kuiil from the side. While Kuiil tinges their bond with a bit of melancholy, the goodbye still can’t damper the flames of his excitement. “I’ll be back,” he tells them in a cheery voice. “We’ll bring stuff home!”

 _Sure,_ Din thinks. The kid’s penchant for collecting things will inevitably leave them with no room on the ship.

“But it could be _so long…”_

“Din!”

Din looks over his shoulder at the main ramp before setting down their last crate of food. He walks over and down before coming face to face with most of their tribe, the Mandalorians gathered around with helmeted gazes. Din pauses, looking at them each. “What’s… this?”

Several of them snort or laugh. _“Goodbye,_ Din,” Griphin says, “we’re saying _goodbye.”_

“Oh,” he mutters.

As they let out exasperated grumbles, Ali’i steps up to him. “Here,” she says, and holds out a sealed container. Din takes it. _“Uj’alayi._ You wouldn’t think to pack treats, and it might save you from a grumpy child.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at the container and remembers an action similar to this, long ago.

“At least you’re remembering the kid this time,” Griphin says, and chuckles as he gets a shove from Paz. “What?”

Din manages a small smile.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Thara says. The rest nod in agreement. “We’re here whenever you decide to come home.”

Din swallows back the feeling in his chest. They each mutter their goodbyes, all of course with the knowledge that it isn’t a goodbye forever. Likely, they’ll be back once the kid starts feeling homesick. Even Ari stands beside her brother, offering him a sad smile, and they share a nod.

Soon, only the Armorer stands before him, her gaze as intense as it has ever been. For a moment she only looks at him and they stand in silence.

“Keep a close eye on him,” she says, head turning towards the children. “He has the proclivity for _shereshoy._ And unfortunately, not quite the sense to go with it yet.”

Din nods. “I will.”

“Fair travels, _beroya._ We await your return.”

“Thank you.”

“This is our Way.”

“This is our Way,” he repeats.

She nods and turns away, walking off the same direction as the others. Din watches her go, then feels a tug at his leg. He looks down at Kuiil, who reaches up for his hand, and Din gives it. “Ready?” he says.

Kuiil looks up at him with a smile. “Ready,” he says.

Din reaches down and picks him up. The kid cuddles against his shoulder as they walk onto the ship and he presses the control buttons for the ship to close up, ramps rising off the ground, doors closing. An excitement begins in him, or it’s just coming from the kid. They’re sealed in, door mechanisms hissing as they lock, and Din starts up the ladder.

In the cockpit, Kuiil jumps off and lands on the control deck, already coming to the transparisteel to look out. Din watches him, then begins the startup sequence. He flips the switches to the side and overhead, mouthing each beneath the helmet, reminding himself of the order. It’s been a long time. The kid is waving, and Din looks out. Their tribe is watching, more gathered. Din feels his face heat up. Kirana stands among them, Ari beside her.

They wave. Kuiil waves back with fervor. “Bye!” he calls, voice echoing off the transparisteel. _“Ret’!”_

The _Razor Crest_ lifts off the ground.

The kid is glued to the shielding even when they’ve turned, when they’re flying out of the hangar, when the sight of grey metal and ships turns to blue skies and clouds. He watches, arms resting on the edge as he watches, letting out a soft sigh. “We’ll be back, promise,” he whispers. Din looks at him, then back to the skies.

They rise into the clouds, the wisps dispelling around them. The star begin to appear, the blue fading into black, until the atmosphere is only a hazy glow. The stars are sparkling, an infinite sea of potential adventures. Slowly, Kuiil peels away from the transparisteel and instead climbs into Din’s lap, settling there. He leans back against Din, staring through his visor, before looking up.

“Ready?”

Kuiil smiles.

“Ready,” he says. “First -- Sorgan!”

Din reaches for the hyperdrive and pulls back, sending them shooting into the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Di'kut - idiot, useless  
> Cuun aliit - our family, our clan  
> Uj'alayi - dense, very sweet, flat cake. made with syrup, ground nuts, pureed dried fruit, and spice
> 
> The [Discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


	7. The End (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes on. We move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

_42 years later..._

Some things never change, and some things change no matter what. Time drags on, bringing change with it, never slowing. It waits for no one. And it doesn’t always heal.

Not for him. Not yet. He isn’t sure he knows what _healing_ is supposed to feel like.

 _72 is a long life for a Mandalorian._ Those words reverberate through his mind, said so many times that he can’t bear to _think_ about it. _A long, accomplished life._ Expected, honorable, inevitable. So many died before they could reach that age. _He deserved the way he went._

Deserved.

Like Din Djarin ever could deserve death, no matter how it came to him.

He stands in the center of the jungle, taking deep breaths, heart pounding in his chest. His body trembles, muscles weighed down with fatigue, the lightsaber’s light illuminating the area around him. The shadows dance just as he does, lifting the saber as he runs through the form. But his memory of the exercise steps is hazy and he can only fill in the blanks on his own, letting the Force flow through him like it always has.

He’s alone, just as he wants to be. Even Maz won’t follow him when he’s requested solitude, when he’s disappeared to find it on his own, when he blocks off his mind and takes the lightsaber and just vanishes. Surrounded by the flora, he can feel the Force here, seeping into him from the ground and the trees and the creatures that dive through the shrubs. It’s nothing like Luke’s temple. It’s nothing like Ahch-To, a planet he’s only visited once in the recent years but had leapt at him with its connection to the Force. It’s…

He stumbles, collapsing to his knees, and he stares down into a small puddle of water. The lightsaber hisses, burning away at the wet grass, but he’s far too distracted by the Mandalorian helmet that stares back at him. He takes a shaky breath, then reaches up and removes the helmet, staring down into the water. He picks up the saber and watches how the light moves against his own face, the light shining in his eyes. He sits back and squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a breath.

_“You’re a long way from home, little one.”_

He jerks around in an instant, on his feet again with the saber raised. “Who are you?” he demands, ears twitching to find the source. “Where are…”

_“I’d hoped Maz would get it to you.”_

“Luke?” he whispers.

He turns again and freezes at the sight of the ghost before him. Luke smiles at him, stepping out from the cover of the trees as his form shimmers into view. He looks old, much like when Kuiil saw him last, wearing the robes of a jedi but his hair long and grey. Tears prick into Kuiil’s eyes. “I can’t be home,” he whispers, voice trembling. He shuts off the lightsaber and lifts it. “You left it on Ahch-To. Maz said I should have it.”

 _“You should,”_ Luke says, walking over. Kuiil watches him, and the light of his form reflects off the helmet’s visor. He crouches down to look at it with a forlorn but understanding gaze, and Kuiil swallows. _“The Mandalorians have survived all that’s happened. Your tribe stands strong. Why are you here?”_

Kuiil reaches down for the helmet. “I wanted to travel,” he says.

Luke looks at him, standing again.

Kuiil looks back, but after a few moments he relents, beginning to wring his hands. “I can’t go back,” he whispers. He tries hard to keep the tremble out of his voice, but it’s difficult. “It’s been a year, and they all want me back, b-but it’s only been a _year_ and I can’t -- I can’t _be there_ without him. I can’t. I…”

The tears threaten to fall. He squeezes his eyes shut and slips the helmet on.

 _“We tried to prepare you for this.”_ Luke sits down in the grass. _“But it was never going to be smooth.”_

The master’s light in the Force is strong, warm, welcoming. Kuiil sits down with him, tears hidden behind his helmet, the beskar feeling so right and proper on him even when it’s now cold and heavy. He holds the lightsaber between his shaking hands. “I felt it,” he whispers. “I knew… I knew. When he… he _went_ and the bond broke and… I _felt_ it.” He swallows back the lump. “The moment he was gone, I felt it.”

_“You were with him.”_

“I had to _watch,”_ Kuiil bites, voice breaking now.

 _“The last thing he felt was you with him.”_ Luke gives him a sad smile. _“He had his child at his side. He rebuilt the Mandalorians but you were always his greatest accomplishment. No one needed a face to see how much he adored you. Having you there was the best thing he could’ve asked for.”_

The lump grows larger, and he stares down into his hands as the tears blur his vision. “Why couldn’t I save him?” he whispers, and the sob threatens to break out. “Why couldn’t I -- just… a little bit _longer?_ Just another _year,_ and I would… I would’ve…”

 _“A little more time does not give us hindsight,”_ Luke says. _“If we all could fix our mistakes and missteps, we would. A little more time doesn’t make reality less painful than it is. Neither does running like this.”_

“You ran.” His voice is miserable and bitter, the words growled out, claws digging against the metal of the saber. “You ran to Ahch-To and the First Order happened, Ben happened, and you just _ran_ from it.”

 _“Hindsight,”_ Luke sighs, his expression downcast. _“There is so much of my life I would do again. So many events could have gone smoother. So many things I could have known. I would have met your clan differently, rather than with assumptions. I would have looked at Ben with less fear. I would not have run from what I’d done.”_ He looks at Kuiil. _“So I can tell you that running from your grief will not give you the peace you want.”_

He falls silent. Rain begins to drip from above and he lets out a breath. His beskar will feel heavier once his undersuit is wet. He clips the lightsaber to his belt, settling in again with the quiet between them.

“I miss him.” His voice breaks again. “I want him back. It’s not… it’s not fair. I don’t want to spend all this time _without_ him--” He cuts himself off. The tears threaten to overwhelm him, the twisting in his stomach, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He pulls off his helmet once again. “He’s… he’s just _waiting_ for me.”

 _“He’ll wait.”_ Luke smiles at him. _“When your time comes, you’ll have centuries of experience with you, little one. Enough stories to tell him when you can. I know he’d listen to every single one.”_

His heart hurts. It’s an ache in his chest that’s unceasing, has never gone away for the past year and is only amplified now by Luke’s words. He desperately wants to be held by his father again. He yearns for his comfort, strong arms and warmth beneath the cold of beskar, holding him. But his father is no longer of this world and even away from home, no, he cannot escape the loneliness of being left behind.

“You’re telling me to go home,” Kuiil says.

 _“You won’t find contentment anywhere else,”_ Luke says. _“You’re a Mandalorian. You can travel with Maz and train as a jedi but you know in you’re heart that you’re a foundling of clan Djarin. That name lives on in you alone now. Your father’s legacy is yours to decide.”_ There’s a reflection in his tone. He looks around. _“You won’t be able to move on until you’ve dealt with what’s behind you.”_

He’s quiet.

_“Your family misses you. They want to help you, nothing more.”_

“I don’t think they can help me.”

_“Grief is no stranger to them. They understand better than you may realize.”_

Kuiil looks down at his hands. The rain is growing stronger now, a roar of sound from above, and he’s getting soaked. Luke doesn’t appear bothered at all. Of course he isn’t, Kuiil reminds himself, the dead feel nothing.

He nearly chokes on a sob.

“He isn’t coming back.” He looks up. “Not like you.”

 _“Returning in this way is a challenge even to a jedi,”_ Luke says, shaking his head. _“Your father would not be able to return through the Force.”_

Kuiil is ready to protest the statement, as though Luke could change that fact. But he gets up instead, starting to wring water out of his trousers, and Luke only watches. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He glances up towards the sky, then reaches up. The tree branches above are drawn closer to block out the water. He takes a step towards the path leading back, then looks at Luke again. “I… I wish I’d been there.”

Luke looks at him.

“I wish… I…”

Luke just smiles and nods before his form shimmers to nothing, taking the light with him.

Kuiil lets out a shaky breath but begins back towards the ship. The exterior lights are on and the ramp down; it provides blessed relief from the pouring rain as he gets inside. His feet _tap_ against the ship’s floor as he heads towards his room, ignoring the laughter from down the hall. Though he adores Maz and her company, their two other traveling companions are less within his affections. He squeezes out more of the water before shutting his door behind himself, hitting the lock, and starting to strip off the beskar. He gets off the wet clothes and dries off with the sonic before dressing again.

Luke’s words ring through his head.

He’s careful with his armor. He piles it together, then looks around for a towel to wipe it down. It’s still shiny and new, sustaining little damage over time, and he owes it to constant cleaning. He finds the towel and then his bag, starting to dig through for his cleaning kit. A few boxes sit at the bottom of the bag, most untouched. One is a black box, given to him by Paz before his departure, that he hasn’t bothered to touch. He gives it a glance, but turns away. He instead takes out the cleaning kit, opening the box to grab the oil and cloth.

 _They know better than you think._ He lets out a breath. It isn’t _home_ anymore, he should have told Luke. The Mandalorians’ home isn’t his home anymore, it just can’t be. He couldn’t live with the feeling that his father was just around the corner. Just down in another room. Always right there but not quite, as though his presence lingered, teasing Kuiil with the happiness that had been taken from him. He couldn’t stand it. Ari had been able to return to the Mandalorians, but only after _years_ and without a tribe. Somehow, she had found a sense of healing, but he...

He doesn’t know that time has made things any better.

He turns back to his bed, only for his foot to be caught on the bag’s strap. He sucks in a breath and manages to catch himself, still holding the cleaning kit, but the bag falls to the floor to spill everything out. He looks back at it with a groan, then puts the kit down before he begins to clean it up. _"Osik..."_

He lifts up the bag and starts to shove clothing back inside, his mechanics’ tools, the trinkets he’s gathered over time. He smiles to himself. _Don’t you have enough of those?_ His father had grumbled often about the amount of odds and ends Kuiil wanted to collect, spending credits on the little figurines and shiny pieces he liked. A collection of beads from Sorgan, gifted by Winta, or the rebellion figurines Cara had given him. _True little jawa._

He's not little.

He reaches for the black box.

It’s fallen open, its contents spilled out -- a couple dozen hologram chips. Kuiil frowns to himself and slowly collects them again, dumping them back inside the box before he lifts it up. Inside the lid is a thick silver engraving, beskar, and he has to tilt it to read in the light. The Mando’a shines up at him.

_For when the memories start to fade._

He stares at the words, swallowing back the hardening lump.

His armor now forgotten, he gets up and walks to the nearby wall. He grabs a handle and pulls out the computer; a modest contraption but it has a hologram port. He looks down into the box, then grabs a chip. _1_ is engraved on it. He inserts it into the port. It’s accepted into place and he presses a few buttons before the blue image shoots out from the projector, taking shape before him. The lights are dimmed and he stares up at…

… his father.

 _“Go.”_ It’s someone’s voice. The image of his father faces away and Kuiil comes over to his bed, climbing on before facing it. The hot tears are already forcing through and he wipes at them to see.

His father is holding him, only he’s a baby, looking ever so tiny. He’s wrapped up in a sweater, facing away as he naps against his _buir._ Din Djarin looks… his armor is its silver color. His cape falls against his back, no jetpack in sight. He has the Mudhorn welded to his pauldron. It must be... how long?

_“Hey, kid.”_

He nearly chokes.

 _“Uh…”_ His father lets out a recorded breath. _“We have this… idea. You’re going to live for a long time. You’re 51 now, and still so small. You’re probably… well, enough time and you start to forget.”_ He looks down at the baby in his arms. _“We’re trying this out. Recorded holograms for you to have. To keep track of things, and…”_ There’s hesitation. His father looks elsewhere. _“There’s a lot to explain. Who you are, what you are, and… how everything has happened. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to tell you the whole story in a way you’ll remember.”_

Kuiil stares up at him, feeling the hot tears drip down his cheeks. He slips off the bed, looking up at the recording, and for a moment he can close his eyes and pretend his _buir_ is here. In front of him. Speaking to him.

 _“So, uh… that’s the explanation. We’re all trying to add something.”_ For a moment, he can hear a smile in Din’s voice. _“I love you, kid.”_

The hologram disappears.

Without thinking, Kuiil scrambles for the rest of the chips.

Maz comes in at one point.

Kuiil doesn’t acknowledge her. Curled up on his bed, tears streaming down his face no matter how many times he wipes them away, he watches every chip. He follows the order and watches himself grow up. His father is in most chips, holding him, teaching him. It’s another Mandalorian holding the device, insistent on getting the moment, despite Din’s weak protests about _do it later._ He smiles through the tears.

When the door opens, the light streams in behind Maz. She’s about to speak when she pauses, seeing the holograms and Kuiil’s lit up face. Then, she disappears again, and he switches out the chip.

 _“Okay.”_ He can hear Din’s voice, but only his child self is visible, lying on the floor. _“Need to get this, or the others will stab me.”_

He swallows. He watches the hologram of his father come into view and kneel down on the floor. _“Kid,”_ he says. _“Say it again.”_

The baby on the hologram stares at Din, then looks at the viewer. He starts to get up and walk towards it, mumbling nonsense sentences. _“No,”_ his father says, _“You said it. Say it again, kid. Come on.”_

_“Aaah? W… Want…”_

_“Come on. ‘Love you’. ‘Love you,’ kid, come on.”_

Another round of fresh tears begin.

 _“Luh… love… y-you.”_ The baby stares up at Din, then breaks into smiles, giggling. _“Love you! Lo-ove…”_ He’s scooped up into a hug, still laughing.

Sobs are held back as the chip changes again.

 _“Hey, kid.”_ He looks up. His father is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by three Mandalorians. Paz, Griphin and… _Ari_ between them, the little girl helmetless and smiling. Paz’s voice rumbles, just another relic he thought had been lost. _“Whenever you’re watching this…”_

The door opens again. Maz is quiet, but she walks over and a mug of something hot is pushed into his hands. She drapes a blanket over him, heavy and warm, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “They go on for years,” she says quietly, before she’s gone again. Kuiil stares after her, then takes a slow sip of the drink, tasting the tea. He settles in again, sniffing.

The chips go in and out, moved now by the Force. He puts in the next one, and his father has returned again, sitting down. He’s alone. Kuiil swallows and draws up the blanket.

 _“Kid.”_ Din sighs. _“... Wherever you are right now, I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re somewhere safe, whether our tribe is still around or not. That you’re happy.”_

Kuiil bites down on his tongue.

 _“I want to tell you how it all happened. In all the detail I can before I forget it.”_ His father shifts. He hated storytelling. He’d let Kuiil ramble away about their adventures before recapping himself. _“How you came to me, how we escaped it, who Moff Gideon is. Every mistake I made. Even the ones I’m still ashamed of. You deserve to know it all.”_ A pause. _“We were still living beneath Nevarro. There was a bounty…”_

He’s heard the tale before. It’d become a bedtime story for a little one who couldn’t sleep, wanting to hear again and again how he’d found his family, and his father had entertained him with the worst details cut out. Now, he listens with rapt attention. Not to the story. To the voice he’d thought was lost.

He sits there for hours.

There’s little pattern to the holograms. Some are short, others longer. Some are just documentation of something that’s happened, him sprouting off about a new word or moving things with the Force. Some are stories. Some are advice. Different members of his family, sitting down with the device to make a memory for him. The tears never really stop as he watches, and he can’t believe he doesn’t remember these recordings.

_“It’s on?”_

_“Yeah.”_

He stares with wide eyes at Luke and his _buir._ They sit side by side on what appears like his father’s bed, facing the camera. The armor still isn’t painted. Luke smiles at the recording device.

 _“We haven’t done a lot of these… things, recently,”_ Din says. _“It’s all been hectic. But we never… really did one for what happened between us.”_

Din and Luke glance at each other. Dead men who’d learned to be friends.

 _“Everything that happened,”_ Luke says. _“Good or bad.”_

But he can’t get through the whole story. Instead, he sets aside the finished tea and gets up, grabbing the box. He starts looking through until he finds the highest numbered chip, trading that into the viewer instead. His head aches from crying. His eyes are puffy. He just draws up the blanket around himself, hands trembling, claws digging in.

His father appears again. Kuiil recognizes it now; his father sits in the pilot’s chair of the _Razor Crest._ He feels his chest tighten. Din doesn’t speak at first, just leaning back in the chair.

 _“Kid,”_ he says, with that gentle familiarity, and he sounds older. _“Things are… good. Almost like they used to be.”_

A pause.

 _“... You’re going to grow up.”_ Din shifts. _“One day, sooner or later, I’ll be gone and you’ll still be here.”_

The sob escapes.

 _“I can’t help you through it.”_ There’s a smile in his voice. _“I’d figure out the Force if it gave me a way to stay with you. But it’s… not going to happen. So I can only try to prepare you for life without me.”_

He can feel himself breaking.

 _“I’m… sorry.”_ A pause. _“I wish I’d done more. Not held you so tightly. Taught you a few more things, seen a few more places. We lost time. I lost time. I want to make it up as best I can, but one day you’ll be here and I won’t.”_

He buries his face in the blanket.

_“You were the best part of my life. The one regret I don’t have. But without me… you’ll be okay, kid. I know it. Luke knew it. We all do. You’re going to be okay.”_

“Buir!”

Kuiil looks up. His father turns and looks over his shoulder, then to the device. _“Stay with your tribe,_ ad’ika,” he says. _“You’re a Mandalorian. This is our Way._ Gar kar’taylir darasuum.”

He reaches up and the hologram disappears.

He sits alone in the dark and cries until he can’t breathe.

Maz comes to check on him an hour later. She turns the lights to a dim setting and sits beside him on the bed. He’s near passed out, slumped on the blanket as exhaustion grips him. His armor is untouched. She places a hand on his back and makes slow circles.

“We all have a place in this galaxy, little one,” she says. “Do you believe it is truly out here?”

Kuiil stares at the dead computer. He pushes himself up and rubs at his eyes, crusted with dried tears, then looks towards his armor where it's settled down beside Luke's lightsaber.

“I want to go home,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> Osik - shit  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Buir - father/mother  
> Gar kar'taylir darasuum - I love you
> 
> This series is 9 months in the making. A Source of Warmth was the first Mando fic I ever posted and it just... grew into more. The story just started writing itself until this fic - this one has been the absolute most difficult to write, because I had to find that line of what felt "right" but also expected. I wanted their story to end, but in a way that felt like their story.
> 
> If you've been here since the beginning, thank you. If you joined around the middle, or just binged this all in one go - thank you. For the comments, kudos, the friendships this whole series has given me. I started a discord for this and didn't anticipate anyone joining, but the people there are now the first I talk to in the morning. It's more than I deserve, so thank you.
> 
> I plan on occasionally returning to this universe with oneshots or small stories, but the main arc is complete. Thank you so much.
> 
> GORGEOUS fanart by Red Velvet Panda, fantastic artist and wonderful friend.
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


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